Never the Right Time
by directedbysherlock
Summary: Greg Lestrade is in love with Molly Hooper but is threatened by her close relationship to Sherlock. The three of them are friends with bonds that go deep, but secrets from the past, unfulfilled desires, and things left unspoken are changing everything... This story follows Molly's beginning interest in Sherlock to her eventual relationship with DI Greg Lestrade.
1. The Text

_Four months after the Fall: February_

It was raining, again. Molly pushed tendrils of damp hair behind her ear, exiting the gym. It had been quite a workout. Greg Lestrade was outside waiting, had just pulled his lighter and cigarette out of the pocket of his trench coat. He was teaching her some self-defense moves.

"Hey, Molls," he said. "Fancy a beer? It's Friday night."

She checked her watch. "I'm sorry Greg, it's already late. I've got some things to do at home yet tonight. Thanks, though, for the lesson. It was really great."

Greg tried to hide his disappointment, but nonetheless pleasantly said, "Next time, then." He took a drag, blew it out. "You're getting good, you know. Pretty soon I won't have much more to teach you."

"Thanks, Greg. See you next week." She gave him a little wave and they went their separate ways. She knew he was lonely, with the divorce and all, but tonight she just wasn't up for it. It had been a long day at work.

Molly pulled her coat more tightly around her. The wind was starting up and it was driving the drizzle into her face and cold water was somehow leaking down the back of her neck.

_Ding._ A text had come in. She fished her phone out of her pocket, wiped some droplets of rain off the glowing screen.

_You were right, you know._

Molly frowned. An anonymous number. Who was this from? Right about what?

_Ding_.

_I'm not ok._

Molly froze in her tracks. Someone had said this to her once, these very words, almost exactly four months ago. But he had left London right after the fall, disappeared to who knew where and she had not heard from him since. Her hand trembled a little as she wondered if it could really be him….Only one way to find out.

She texted back.

_What do you need?_

_Ding_.

_You_


	2. The First Cut

Sherlock sat on the floor of the tube station, head leaning back against a corner wall. Christ, he had a headache. He wore a huge and filthy overcoat, with a deep hood that he had pulled over his head. He didn't want to be recognized. He came to London to track down a member of Moriarty's network. He located the target, but things didn't go quite as planned. There was a fight and the target got away, and all he had to show for it was a good beating. He'd been close, though, so close.

He hoped she could get here soon. He could think of no one else to call. Usually dressing like one of the homeless network made him invisible, but the ridiculous amount of blood spilling from the cut in his head might actually attract attention. He did not want to be forcibly carted off in a police car to the hospital or to some homeless shelter.

He must have drifted off, because it did not seem much later that a rough hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake. "Shezza, she's here." The homeless network member disappeared after Molly had been escorted to his location.

"Sherlock," she whispered tersely. "I hope that's you under there."

His good eye opened, the one not swollen shut. Molly, finally.

Molly leaned down in front of him, pulling the parka hood off his head. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

"Got the shit beat out of me, obviously," he mumbled. He knew he looked bad.

"I've got to get you to a hospital!"

"No!" he exclaimed, a little louder than he meant to. Molly jumped, looked nervously over her shoulder. "No, no hospitals," he continued more quietly. He tried to sit up a little, groaned again in pain.

"Mycroft, then!"

"No, nobody knows I'm here. Not even Mycroft. Especially not Mycroft. I'm not supposed to be here. Nobody knows I'm here." His good eye was still trained on her. "Except my doctor."

Molly blinked. Well, he wasn't talking about John. John thought he was dead. "I suppose that's me, you mean." She sat back on her heels. "You know I do my best work on dead people. And you're not actually dead, contrary to popular belief. I'm not sure I'm qualified for this."

Sherlock waved a hand weakly in the air, brushing her words away. "Oh, you stitch up bodies all the time, surely you can stitch up this little thing."

She exhaled deeply and leaned forward. She could see the gash all right, about an inch long, right above the hairline. She probed gently around it with her fingers. It was really swollen, too. Must have been quite a blow. His hair was matted with dirt and blood. "I don't know…"

Sherlock suddenly reached up again and grabbed her wrist, said softly, "Please."

She nibbled at the corner of her lip a bit, a habit he knew she had when she was nervous or uncertain. But finally she said, "Ok. _Shezza_," she repeated with some emphasis, a little sarcastically. "This is probably a really bad idea. But I'll help you. Of course I'll help you. I'll get a cab."


	3. Out of Uniform

Under the glare of the kitchen fluorescent lights, she was able to assess the situation a little better. He was sitting in a chair, his head tilted down. Well, it wasn't so deep, that was good. Just bleeding a lot like head wounds often did. She probably could stitch it up evenly without leaving too much of a scar. The swelling, though, she didn't know how bad that was, couldn't tell if he had a concussion. "What did you get hit with?"

"Mmm, don't know. Didn't see it. Would have dodged it if I had."

"I'm going to have to clean this up a bit, I can't really see what I'm doing."

She went to get a bowl of water and a towel and set it on the countertop beside them. Molly brushed gently at his hair with the wet towel, the water in the bowl turning pinker with every rinse of the cloth. She had to smooth the hair away from the cut, the strands running through her fingers. She had imagined doing that before, under different circumstances, of course. It was odd to be here with him like this. He was in baggy, scruffy street clothes and she was dressed in rather tight jeans and a t-shirt. Usually he was in one of his gorgeous well-cut suits and she was in a shapeless lab coat. It was odd to have their roles reversed. They were both without their uniforms and with no professional armor to hide behind, and she felt exposed. It was always better for her to be armored around Sherlock.

Finished with the cleaning, she applied a topical anesthetic to the area and readied the surgical needle and thread which she had picked up from the lab on the way back to the flat. She stitched it up quickly and expertly. Sherlock hadn't said a word. He was still looking down, eyes shut tight, his hands firmly gripping the chair arms on either side, knuckles white. The stitches had probably hurt, even with the anesthetic.

Next she looked at his swollen eye. "Look up, please," she said efficiently, trying to sound professional.

He tipped his head up, but his eyes remained shut. Some locks of hair fell across his forehead. With the cloth she cleaned the grime from his face. She brushed the locks off his forehead, then took his face between her hands, tilted it a little for a better look under the light. No doubt about it, he had quite a shiner. With her thumb she gently wiped a remaining smear off his cheek. His good eye opened and fixed her with his gaze. Her heart began to quicken and her expression softened, a soft smile lighting her face. She had never had an excuse to touch him before and he was as beautiful to her now, even battered like this, as he had ever been. She tentatively ran her thumb across his cheek again, chanced a gentle caress.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked quietly.

"No," he said shortly, his voice a low growl. His head suddenly jerked to the side. "It's better if you don't know."

Molly dropped her hands from his face and turned her back on him, trying to control her rising anger at shutting her out and she was hurt by the sting of rejection. He could be rude and intimidating at times. She didn't ask anything more. "I'll get you some ice for that eye."

She came back a few minutes later and handed him an ice pack. "You need to be looked after tonight. You've had a blow to the head. Since you won't go to hospital I don't know if you have a concussion or not and you need to be monitored. You'll have to stay here."

"All right," he consented, looking at her past the ice pack. "You're the doctor." He still sounded a little gruff.

Molly held his gaze for a moment. Then said tersely, "I'm going to go get a room ready for you." She was angry with him. Not just for being short with her. It went deeper than that. Angry for making her keep his terrible secret, for putting his friends through such anguish. For making her pretend that she didn't know he was still alive. He had never told her all the details of why he did what he did. The sheer extent of her absolute faith in him sometimes alarmed her, the length to which she might go. Had actually gone. And for what, she could not answer.

She started to walk away, but stopped. She did not turn around but said, loud and clear, "I hope this is all worth it. Whatever it is you're doing. I really hope it's worth it." She disappeared out of the kitchen.


	4. The Getaway

Sherlock woke with a start. He didn't immediately recognize his surroundings. It was dark with only a sliver of light coming through a break in the curtains from the streetlights. He attempted to sit up and was immediately assaulted by the pain of a headache and various bruises. He sank back down into the sheets. Some very, very nice sheets. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, automatically assessing the fabric. Four-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. He had done some research on the tensile strength of fabrics and could identify nearly anything by touch. He took a moment to breathe deeply, and enjoyed the weightlessness he felt at just that moment, resting on top of that plush mattress. The feel of the clean, cool sheets floating over his freshly clean skin was nearing erotic extremes. He'd slept in some real shitholes lately and this was close to heaven.

He slowly remembered that he'd been beaten up and Molly Hooper took him home, stitched him up, let him use the shower and sleep in her room, on her comfortable bed. He remembered her calm efficiency, the reassurance of her skillful hands. He remembered what it felt to have her hands cradling his face, looking down at him with kindness and gently stroking his cheek. Her touch had affected him strangely and a near panic had risen in him. He half wanted her to keep touching his face and running her fingers through his hair while the other half wanted to flee the human contact. The sensory conflict made him curt with her. He knew he was often curt with her and nearly always regretted it immediately, but was nearly always unable to say so.

He slipped out of bed, grabbed his clothes and quickly dressed. He was fixed up enough to get out of town. Every moment he stayed he was at risk. He had let a loose-end get away and he would have to make up for that. He did not think Molly was at too much risk, as she had never even made it on the radar with Moriarty's network. But still, one could not take chances. And if Mycroft found out he had been in town, there would be hell to pay. Mycroft hated it when he did not stick to the plan. But the lead had been hot and he played it out, it just didn't work out.

He crept through the quiet apartment, trying not to make any noise. As he passed through the living room he saw that Molly was sleeping on the sofa. He felt an unfamiliar pull in his chest. Even he knew it was a bit not good to leave like this. She looked very young, her face completely guileless in sleep. She was curled on her side, one hand under her cheek, her long hair flowing around her shoulders. She was still dressed in her jeans and t-shirt.

He shook his head to clear it. Time to go. Better if she didn't know when he left or where he was going, best to avoid questions. He wondered with self-derision if he had really come to London for the Work, or if he just missed being here. Sentiment had nearly got him killed. It would not happen again. He pulled the apartment door shut behind him with a soft snick.


	5. An Imposition

_Six months after the Fall: April _

Mycroft had sent for him, rooted him out of Dubai. There was new business to discuss, he said. So he was back in London again but still as undercover as ever. His disguise was different this time, the total opposite of Shezza. Today he was in a black suit, white shirt and skinny black tie. He wore a long black coat but not like his Belstaff, more like that of a businessman, tailored and conservative. He slicked his hair back with gel. To top it off he wore a fedora-like grey hat that he could pull low over his forehead to cover his face. This had allowed him to pass unnoticed on the streets of London near Mycroft's office, just another government worker.

Life on the hunt was not glamorous. He'd done some things that would never be considered as civilized. The morality of a few of his decisions was questionable at best. He'd been living in some lodgings that were beyond horrible. He'd gotten used to the threat of constant danger. It had changed him, and probably not for the better. But sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. That much he'd expected. What bothered him was how much his thoughts returned to 221B. He missed his books, his collections, the sight of John sitting in his chair and silently reading his newspaper. Even the chatter of Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be unwelcome. It disturbed him even more to realize how often his mind wandered to Molly Hooper's flat.

He had refused Mycroft's offers of lodging. He did not want to be that much under the thumb of his older, demanding brother. He considered a few options, but nevertheless, that evening he found himself in front of Molly's flat. He knew he would find safe passage with Molly for as long as he was there. He assumed she had forgiven him for his unannounced departure two months before; she always did. His expensively gloved knuckles rapped on the door. After a moment, it opened a crack, the chain still attached. "Yes?" he heard her voice say.

He removed his hat and watched recognition slowly dawn on Molly's face. The door closed and he heard the chain slip free, and the door opened again, wide enough for him to enter.

"I need a place to stay." He suddenly felt uncertain of his welcome. "If…it would not be too much of an imposition?"

"Um…no. Come in."

Sherlock came in and Molly closed the door behind him. Once through, Sherlock turned around to face her. Molly was wearing a black dress, high-necked but very form fitting, skirt hem just above the knee, with black stockings and high heels. Her long glossy hair hung loosely over her shoulders. Her makeup was subtle but enhancing.

He schooled his features to a neutral expression, working through his own suddenly disturbing thoughts about Molly Hooper. He cleared his throat. "You look…different," he waved his hand towards her, the nice words he was not practiced at saying eluding him, and looked away. "I'm interrupting something," he concluded.

"I, well, I have a date."

Sherlock looked back at her in surprise, his eyebrows quirked. "I should go." He felt a pang of disappointment, but brushed it away. He could go somewhere else, maybe back to Mycroft after all. The thought was not appealing.

"No, no. You can stay." She chewed a little nervously on her lip again, crossed her arms in front of her. "I'm going out. I'm meeting him at a restaurant. You won't be seen here." She shook her hair over her shoulder, then uncrossed her arms and smoothed her dress down at her sides. Her dark chocolate eyes were fixed on him. "I didn't think I would see you again," she finally said.

He was unsure how to answer. Stalling for time, he removed his gloves, then removed his coat, and laid them on a chair by the door. He straightened his tie. "Duty called," he finally said. "Mycroft, that is." Molly knew he worked with Mycroft; they had all three executed the Fall together. But she did not know what they were doing now. She didn't ever need to know that. She would not approve.

He took a moment and studied those eyes still fixed on him. He could not say with certainty that she was _happy_ to see him. He had just assumed. There were times, before the fall, when she could never hide her happiness to see him, no matter how surly or unsociable he was. He did see her attraction to him—her dilated pupils always gave her away, like now, and he had been known to take advantage of that. The look on her face, though, did not match her eyes. It shook him a little to think she might feel differently now. He was beginning to think this was a different Molly Hooper than the one he had left behind.

She checked her watch. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I've got to go. You can use my room like before. I think we both agree you need the space."

She quickly crossed the room to the closet and took out her coat, then grabbed a small handbag. "Don't wait up." And with that, she left the apartment, almost in a rush, leaving Sherlock to stare at the door that had just shut in his face.


	6. Light and Dark

After Molly left, Sherlock had a look around the flat. He had not really noticed anything the last time he was here, since at that time he had only one good eye and was barely conscious. However, now he could see that it was very neat and cozy. The walls were white and covered with artwork. A highly polished wood floor was covered with a rug with a geometric floral design. A green sofa and blue chair flanked round table on the rug. An orange cat sat on the chair, staring at him with eyes narrowed and flicking its tail from side to side.

Sherlock felt restless and prowled around, picking up things and shaking them close to his ear, looking through drawers, rifling through the leaves of books on her bookshelves, checking the medicine cabinets, checking behind paintings on the wall, all the usual things he assumed guests did when left alone.

As he straightened the picture frame he had just disturbed, he spent a little time looking at the artwork. A series of three, all signed with her name, he noted with surprise. The first was of a stormy sea pounding violently against a cliff of dark, craggy rocks. The sea was green and blue and grey, the foam a dirty white. The sky was beginning to darken and a distant lighthouse beckoned with a weak lamp. Looking closer, he then perceived there was a single, tiny white gull nearly lost in the foamy ocean spray. It was not looking good for the little bird who so struggled against the violent wind to reach land, its feathers ragged, trying to follow the beacon of the lighthouse in the storm. He almost felt tired just looking at it.

The second painting was also featuring a bird, porcelain blue in color but of an unspecified species, roosting contentedly in a nest of brown twigs against a cheerful orange background, reminiscent of a sunset. Or so it appeared like a nest of twigs from a distance. As he looked closer, it became apparent that the nest was actually made of perfectly anatomically correct human phalanges, painted just abstractly enough to resemble twigs. The first two paintings were beautifully done, clever in context but a little dark, which quite appealed to Sherlock's aesthetics.

The third was of a grey and white pigeon lying on the ground, its neck broken and at an odd angle, with eyes blank and beak open slightly. The bird was on a background collage of colors; grays, blacks, whites, reds. As he looked closer again, he began to perceive the collage resembled pavement. The grey of cement, the white of street paint, and the red blooms, perhaps, of blood. He backed up with a start. It struck him viscerally, as a scene that felt almost familiar to him. He did not care to think too much about his own fall to the pavement, faked or not. Maybe Molly had her demons to exorcise about that day, too.

He continued to prowl around the apartment, looking at the other objects, now focusing in on photographs that were scattered about the living room and bedroom. Photographs were very telling, you could learn a lot about someone by what photos they chose to display. He wondered who the people were in all the photos. He had never really thought much about Molly Hooper's personal life. It has been as though she just lived at St. Barts. There were the usual pictures of vacations, school friends, parents, pets. Noticeably absent was anyone resembling a boyfriend, which vaguely pleased him. Probably because he could be reasonably assured no one was going to stop by the flat randomly while he was there.

One photograph stood out from the others. On a side table next to the couch there was a framed photo of four people on a beach, faded and well-loved as evidenced by its creases and dog-eared corners beneath the glass. One was obviously Molly as a child, two adults he assumed were her parents, and a little boy most likely her brother as the resemblance was uncanny. Other pictures in the flat showed her parents grown older, but there was not a single other photograph with the little boy in it, at any age. Interesting.

After an hour or so, he felt bored and went to lie down on Molly's bed, and closed his eyes. He would take the opportunity to practice his deduction techniques. He breathed deeply and relaxed, preparing to go into his Mind Palace with a few preparatory mental exercises. He slowly allowed himself to dissolve into Molly Hooper's room, to catalogue everything in it, to know the feel and smell of everything. The sheets were lightly perfumed and he searched his mind to identify the fragrance. Lavender essence from the fields of Simiane la Rotonde in Provence, if he was not mistaken.

He mentally repainted the door to her room a porcelain blue, like the bird on the nest in the painting. It was the color by which she would now be represented in the Mind Palace. He had a strong color association for each person he catalogued. Now that he was here and surrounded by all the actual objects, he mentally rearranged things to create an exact replica. He put the pictures on the Mind Palace shelves, arranged the pillows just so, parted the curtain a little to let in some light. He finally finished filling in the room to his satisfaction. Now he could visit it again whenever he pleased and it would be accurate down to the last four-hundred thread count detail. Over the last few months he had often thought about waking up in this room the first time he had visited, finding himself in such unaccustomed physical comfort, and unaccustomed… peace, is what came to mind. That moment had left an indelible mark in his mind. When things were bad he would visit this room, and found it would calm him down.

Finally moving out of Molly's room, he continued down the halls of his Mind Palace, passing a series of differently colored doors. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Anderson. The Woman. He thought briefly about going in, but in the end passed her room by.

John Watson. He paused in front of this door, his hand on the handle. But he found he could not go in. He took his hand away, turned around and came back to Molly Hooper's Mind Palace room. His mind returned to the Christmas party a few years ago that had been so disastrous. He was aware she had worn a black dress then, but he was surprised he could remember so little. Lestrade had reliably informed him later that she looked beautiful. He had mentioned it more than once in the weeks afterwards. Surely he should remember more. But he could not.

At midnight, he heard the door to the flat open. He rose from the bed, wearing silky pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. Normally he slept in the nude but he had made a concession to modesty, as he was a guest. He opened the door and saw that Molly was just putting her coat away in the closet. He lounged in the doorway to the bedroom, his arms crossed casually in front of him.

"Have a good evening?" he asked. "It's quite late."

She jumped. "Oh! You startled me. It was… fine. He seemed nice. His name is Tom. I don't know, we might go out again. Maybe not. Probably not." She stopped, pressing her lips together, knowing she was rambling. "Midnight isn't that late."

"Yet another quick end to a potential boyfriend. Pity." No new picture frames would be added anytime soon, he thought, feeling selfishly satisfied.

She just sighed. "I don't expect you to understand." She slipped off her heels and held them in her hand. "Good night, Sherlock. See you in the morning. Unless of course you disappear again. It's up to you." She walked down the hall to the guest bedroom. The cat silently slipped into place behind her, sending him a malevolent stare over its shoulder, clearly miffed at being downgraded from the fluffy bed to the guest bedroom.

Sherlock returned to the room, laid down and stared at the ceiling, lacing his fingers together over his chest. The ceiling fan above his head swooshed softly in the dark. Molly Hooper was developing a bad habit of getting under his skin. He'd just been churlish to her and it didn't even faze her, in fact he was the one who felt off kilter now. The Christmas party nagged at him again. He knew he had said some reckless things and hurt her feelings. And that had been just one of many times, like just now.

But he remembered he had apologized then. At least he had done that, it had certainly been a one-off moment. He still remembered the shock on John's face after the apology, and then John's smile of approval. John had helped him to connect to people and now that help was gone. If anything, he was regressing again.

He didn't need people, he reminded himself. The Work is what mattered most. The network had to be dismantled, at any cost. That was just going to have to be how it was. He eventually drifted off into a fitful night of sleep.


	7. Innuendo 1

The next morning was a rather silent affair at the breakfast table. Sherlock was tapping away on a laptop. Molly attempted to read the paper, but it was very distracting to have a freshly showered Sherlock Holmes across the table from her, smelling of soap with a hint of cloves and smoke from his suit. He was back to his unruly mop of hair, curling damply against his neck. He wore his black suit but this time with a black shirt, open a few buttons at the neck. Black on black, her favorite look. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and she looked away. Actually she had not really expected to see him this morning. She thought he would have slipped away in the night again.

Out of the blue, Sherlock looked up at her. "Your paintings are quite good."

Molly blushed a little. "Oh, thank you."

Silence again. His jaw twitched a little. "And thank you," he said, a little stiltedly, "for letting me stay here." He paused, gathering strength to go on. "Forgive my rudeness last night."

Molly blinked. "Well, that's unexpected. But…thanks. You were a little rude. I just get used to it. But it's nice you realize it sometimes, too."

He was so confusing. Hot and cold. No, more like tepid and cold. She felt a little out of sorts, a slight headache setting in. "I'm going to get some aspirin."

"Medicine cabinet, left side, top shelf," he offered helpfully, turning back to the laptop.

What? Oh that sod, he already knew where they were. He had probably rifled through everything already. Honestly, the man had no boundaries.

She came back from the bathroom, bottle still in her hand. But she did not sit down, she stood across the table from him and watched him tapping away. Maybe she was having a tension headache. It was harder than she thought to have him here, and she needed some answers. Some _clarification_. It was hard to move on with her life when he decided to pop by occasionally. She did not know if there was any meaning in his coming to _her_ flat when he needed to hide, why not go to a hotel? Or to Mycroft? She did not know what he wanted from her. If anything.

After some time he noticed her gaze on him and he stopped typing and looked up.

"Why did you come here?" she asked.

"Oh. Well. You see, everyone else thinks I'm dead."

"Is that all?" 

He paused. "I trust you."

"But is that _all_?" she asked again quietly, deliberately. She wondered if he cared for her at all, be it friend or otherwise. The trauma of the Fall and the aftermath had made her grow up a little, but he could still get to her. He most definitely could.

His eyebrow rose and his brow furrowed a bit, but he did not say anything.

Just then Molly's phone chimed to announce an incoming text. She sighed heavily, and picked up her phone to look. It was Greg, reminding her they had an appointment at the gym in two hours.

"It's Greg Lestrade. We're meeting at the gym later. He's teaching me self-defense."

Sherlock resumed his typing. She knew he was willfully ignoring her line of questioning. It used to be good enough for her just to be around him. But it didn't feel like that anymore. She returned her attention to her phone.


	8. Innuendo 2

Sherlock absorbed the information about Lestrade and the lessons, typed a few more words. "Why?" he suddenly enquired.

Molly was just texting back, and she looked up from the phone. "Why what? Why the self-defense? Well, I guess I just wanted to feel more confident. I spend a lot of time around dead people. Sometimes I have to provide evidence in court about really bad people. I hang out with cops." She finished the text and sent it, looked pointedly at Sherlock. "I know people like _you_," she said wryly. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Sooner or later it might come in handy."

"He likes you," Sherlock suddenly announced. He'd known that for a while, but it had never seemed relevant before.

Now it was her turn to ignore the innuendo. "What? Greg? Well, yes, I like him, too. He's a good friend. We talk. He's going through a hard time, he's probably getting divorced."

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "Ah yes, the PE teacher."

Molly signed heavily in exasperation. "Nobody wants to be reminded of that." She put the phone down. "I'm going to get ready." She left the kitchen.

Again, that bloody disastrous Christmas party, he thought darkly. His then throw-away comment to Lestrade about his wife's affair had probably sent his marriage over a cliff. The same throw away comment now had sent Molly out of the room. He still didn't understand why telling the truth was bad, wouldn't people want to know the truth? Probably he should just shut up. He looked down the hallway and when she was out of sight he immediately grabbed her phone and checked her text messages. He had cracked the PIN ages ago, 221B, so ridiculously simple. He saw there was a long string of texts from Lestrade. It made him cross to see the messages. In a rare moment of self-control, he did not read them all and set the phone back down where she had left it.

When she came back to the kitchen, he was still typing but looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He noticed she had changed into black exercise pants and a tank top. She looked very trim and toned and clearly she had been working out a lot. He felt suddenly very put out about this, too, his mood growing even darker. Personally he had an 8th degree black belt in judo, and if she wanted _proper_ instruction she should have come to him. Never mind the fact that he had been in Dubai or Serbia or wherever in the past six months and not around. He imagined Greg Lestrade in baggy grey sweat pants and an old stained t-shirt, standing behind her, maybe his hands on her hips to readjust her stance or him running a hand up her arm to correct her position. He was scowling.

She had her keys and her coat in her hands and one of her famous multicolored scarves around her neck. "Will you be here when I get back?"

He stopped typing for a beat, but did not look up. "No," he said curtly.

He heard the flat door close with much more force than needed. He sat back in his chair, pushed the laptop away and slammed the lid shut. He really could be an asshole sometimes.


	9. Naughty Girl

Later that day, deep in the warren of Mycroft's offices, he spent some time on his laptop, finally finding what he was after. He could not resist the Hooper family mystery, despite his best efforts. He felt there was something there. He could not stop thinking about the photograph with the little boy. All morning he had been looking up the records for Molly's family. Her father had died of cancer, that much he knew. Her mother had died in a car accident a few years before her father, which he hadn't known. She had never mentioned it.

But the little brother, that was something else entirely. He would not have guessed, would never have suspected, not even with his extraordinary skills of deduction. Twenty years ago, the little boy had been kidnapped. A few days later his body had been found in a field, his throat slashed. He had only been eight years old. The killer had never been identified. It was a horribly shocking story. This was a deeper, darker side to Molly Hooper than he had ever expected to uncover. He pondered her upbeat and sometimes silly personality, those cheerfully colored sweaters and crazy knitted scarves. As though she hid behind a carefully curated façade to keep others from discovering her secrets. Perhaps they had more in common that he had thought.

That evening Sherlock got into the black car that had been sent for him and settled into the rich leather seat. He was back to being the businessman. Anthea was in the car, too, texting as usual. She just looked up and smiled absently, went back to texting. He looked at his watch. It was 10:30 at night. The car pulled out and merged into the traffic on the way to the airport where a chartered plane was waiting.

A few minutes later, he suddenly commanded, "Stop at Bart's." He knew she was working that night.

Anthea stopped texting and frowned disapprovingly. "I don't think Mycroft would like that."

"Fuck Mycroft."

He had thought all day about Molly, who had left the flat this morning with the slam of a door. Nearly every minute they had spent together the last two times he had seen her they had quarreled. Gone were the days when she blushed and stammered every time she saw him, eager to please. He thought about her dark family history, her dark paintings, her desire to learn to protect herself. He could not believe he had been so utterly unsuspecting of someone. None of it was particularly his business and there was reason she should have told him, but still. A huge event like that in her past and he didn't see it. He had to see her before he left. This time he would _observe._

It was dark and quiet in the lab. Since it was late in the evening, only the morgue still remained open. There were no set hours for that; death did not punch a time clock. Sherlock followed the light to the morgue, where he found Molly working on her most recent case.

She was next to the stainless steel table, attending to her last patient of the evening. He was a young boy, probably less than ten years old. She moved around him quietly and slowly, adjusting the position of a hand or foot, brushing the hair back into place. She had just finished an autopsy and a large Y shape on the chest stood out brilliantly against the dead child's pale skin, ending in a mass of purple bruises at the throat. She pulled a white sheet up and over him, respectfully, almost reverently. The soft white light and silence made it seem almost as if they were in a church. If he were dead he would certainly want someone like Molly Hooper to attend to his last moments. The irony of that thought suddenly struck him, and a small smile broke across his lips.

He leaned against the door, just watching her. She was absorbed in her task and had not acknowledged him. She was wearing her white lab coat, as usual, and a flowered shirt with a red cardigan over it. Her hair was up tonight, in braids wrapped around her head. She looked tired, he thought. But her attention never wavered from the boy in front of her.

As he watched her taking care of the boy, comprehension slowly dawned. The pieces of Molly Hooper's life were coming together before his eyes. "Molly," he said, his voice low and rumbling.

Molly did not seem startled. She must have known he was there all along.

"Come to say good bye then, after all." She looked up, right at him.

Sherlock walked further into the morgue, and stood on the side of the table opposite Molly. "I know what happened to your brother," he said quietly, without preamble.

She did not seem surprised to hear him say it. She had almost seemed to expect it. She paused only a moment before she spoke again. "His name was Timmy." She smoothed out the wrinkles in the white sheet, adjusting it one last time. "He was eight years old when he was killed. His throat had been cut. Not too much younger than this boy here."

He looked down at the boy on the table. "Cause of death?"

"This one by strangulation." She reached out and smoothed the sheet, once again, even though there were no wrinkles. "Here one minute, gone the next."

"Like Timmy," he finished her thought.

"He was playing in the garden in front of the house. He loved to play outside with his toy soldiers. We lived in a small town. At that time no one ever thought there was any danger." She looked up at him again. "We didn't know then there was such evil in the world."

Sherlock met her gaze. They both knew what evil was. "And that is why you became a forensic pathologist."

She stilled for a moment. "Somebody needs to speak for the dead." She adjusted the sheet one last time, then slowly slid the table with the child back into the refrigerated hold. "Nobody ever spoke for Timmy." Her voice grew more determined, almost angry. "The case went cold. If I could go back in time I would. Now I would know what to look for. I could _do something_."

She walked over the sink area, stripped off her gloves and threw them in the biohazard trash with some feeling. She took a moment to thoroughly wash her hands. Sherlock just stood quietly and waited, until she finished and faced him again.

"Your father died in your first year of University, leaving you orphaned," he continued softly. He had done the research on her as well, after he read about Timmy. "You put yourself through school. You got your medical degree. You worked hard. And now here you are, director of the morgue at one of the most prestigious hospitals in London. Remarkable."

"Not really," she shrugged. "When you have a goal you want more than anything and you're willing to sacrifice everything, and anyone, to get it, it's not so hard." She walked towards him, stopped a few steps away. "It's a lot easier when you don't have anyone to sacrifice. I think _you_ know that better than anyone."

He tilted his head, eyebrow raised. "Are you deducing me, Molly Hooper?"

"Only because you're deducing me."

Intrigued, he closed the distance between them, looked down into her face from his much greater height. He could not resist a puzzle. "So you want to play this game?"

"I was never really one for games. Not enough imagination, I suppose. I was always the sciency type. Quiet and dull," she said a little flippantly, a little sadly.

His brows furrowed. "That's not true. You paint brilliantly. The paintings show ...the depth of your feeling. The beauty of your mind," was the best way he could think to express his thoughts.

"And you play the violin passionately," she answered in turn. "So what does that say about you?"

Sherlock pulled back slightly, wary of this turn of conversation that was beginning to get very personal. He turned and took a few steps away, holding his hands behind his back. "Your father taught English literature at the high school. By all accounts he was quite clever, he published several volumes of poetry. Your mother was a doctor, but died in a car accident when you were in your early teens. Was it difficult to grow up without a mother?"

Some people might take offense to such a question, but not Molly Hooper. She generally saw no reason not to answer honestly, which sometimes made her seem blunt or awkward in social situations. When they were not quarreling, which seemed to be a lot lately, he could stand talking with her more than he could with almost anyone else. She so often overlooked his shortcomings, was generous with his faults.

"Yes," she said. "But my mother was an alcoholic at the time she died. She had too much to drink and drove her car into a ditch. She was never well, not even before...before Timmy was killed. But she never got over that, never. She quit her practice after…there were complaints. It was like she didn't want to live anymore after he died. She was just passing the time until one day it was over."

She shook her head, as if dispelling memories. "So, I did miss her, yes. But she hadn't been much of a mother to me while she was alive. It's not easy to live with a drunk. I was more of a mother to Timmy than she ever was." She did not sound bitter, just factual.

Sherlock could feel something bubbling under the surface, something hammering to get free in his chest. This was hitting closer to home than anything had done in years. Not so long ago _he_ had been the junkie that was hard to live with. He knew the feeling of passing time, just waiting for it to be over. On many occasions he had woken up somewhere he didn't even recognize, surprised to find himself still alive. He might not talk to anyone else like this again, not for a long time. For once he did not want to hold back.

He clenched his fists, remembering. "Mycroft was more of a parent to me when we were children than my own parents ever were. They were... fine, but just...removed." He looked away. "I lost a brother, too. My family was never the same. We never speak of it. Never." He was silent for a moment. "I've never told anyone that." He felt both relieved, and mortified, at the same time. He willed himself to unclench his fists. Molly, perceptive as usual, said nothing.

A few quiet moments passed, but then she rallied. "Well it was all a long time ago. I guess...I guess that's why I do what I do. Horrible things happen all the time, and for some reason….I feel I can bear it. I can bear to do this work, because it needs to be done." She paused. "I suppose that's why I wear cheerful things. This place can be a downer. I just choose to not let it win."

She grabbed her coat from a peg on the wall, a neon shade of chartreuse green, and wrapped a long knitted scarf with kittens on it around her neck. "Ok then. Let's get out of here. I'm done for the night." She shut off the lights in the morgue and they walked in the near darkness to the door of the lab, illuminated only by the lights of the medical equipment perpetually on. Sherlock walked out next to her, silent. Feelings had come dangerously close to the surface tonight. Molly Hooper was under his skin again.

On the street in front of St. Bart's, before they went their separate ways, Sherlock suddenly turned to her and took hold of her scarf in either hand, pulling her towards him. "Molly Hooper," he said, his face quite close to hers, "You are the still water that runs deep." He looked closely at the kittens on the scarf still in his hands, and shook his head ruefully. "I don't know why you wear these crazy things." His gaze turned back to her eyes. He said aloud what he already knew. "I think this is just a disguise."

He could hear her breathing quicken, knew her cheeks were pink even though he could not see them in the dark. She stood on her toes and leaned in closer. "Well, I'll take mine off if you take yours off," she whispered.

"Naughty girl," he whispered back, close to her ear. Her verbal dance intrigued him, challenged him….attracted him on a level that few ever did. He knew then, in that moment, that he was not indifferent to Molly Hooper. It dawned on him that what he had been feeling, what had caused his churlishness, might be jealousy. Or possessiveness. Or both. She was the only one left, besides his brother, he could communicate with now. He was a ghost, and only she could see him. He felt drawn to her in ways he could not explain.

Slowly, experimentally, he lightly brushed his lips against hers once, then back again, needing to feel her respond to him, and felt the blood rush to his head. It was heady, this momentary freedom to touch and be touched, to feel pleasure and give pleasure. He felt more alive than he had in a long time. He had wanted to do that, he realized, for quite some time. He gently let go of her scarf and she settled back onto her feet, her eyes still shut and her cheeks flushed.

Sherlock saw the big black car pull to the curb down the block. He could not ignore it, much as he would have liked to. He could think of nothing to say, his thoughts uncharacteristically unordered. So he did what he knew he had to do. He did not look back when he walked away.

Once in the car, Anthea looked at him curiously, and then returned to her phone. He watched the brightly lit buildings flash by the car in the darkness, his chin in his hand, deep in thought. He felt that curious snag in his chest again, a sudden sense he couldn't breathe. He shouldn't do it again, stay with Molly Hooper. He was shocked by all that he had told her, shocked he had kissed her, and he could never let that happen again. This interest in the personal details of Molly Hooper's life, the taste and feel of her lips that he had never expected to know, were blurring his focus. _He would not get involved_.

The phone in his jacket's breast pocket buzzed. Startled, he pulled it out and looked at it.

_Careful, brother mine._

_Mycroft_, he hissed under his breath. Sherlock shot a look of daggers at Anthea, who just smiled and shrugged. Mycroft's texts came in one after another, barely a pause between.

_Wolves like you eat little girls like that for breakfast._

_And by the way, fuck you, too._

_Yes, Anthea tells me everything._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Molly Hooper was not what Mycroft thought, she was tough as nails. Or maybe he did know. You never knew with Mycroft.

At the airport, Sherlock saw the waiting plane, made a decision.

"One last smoke," he said to Anthea, and ducked around the corner of the hanger.

And just kept going. So much for his resolve. This was something he needed to figure out. He needed to know what Molly Hooper was to him.

After 10 minutes, his phone chimed.

_Finish your business_

_Just be there in the morning_

_Don't cross me again_


	10. Room Enough for Two

Molly was roused from her sleep by a knock at the door. She checked her clock. It was 1:30 in the morning. She had only gotten back from the morgue a few hours ago, had just gotten to sleep, her head buzzing with thoughts about Sherlock impeding her sleep. She pulled on a robe and shuffled out to the living room, half asleep, but also beginning to feel some alarm. Knocks at the door in the middle of the night were rarely good news. She looked through the peephole, and with surprise recognized the tall, dark-haired figure. She stepped back from the door and opened it to let him in.

He stepped in without saying anything. He looked tired, unhappy. She didn't know what Sherlock wanted from her, and it was possible he was not in a state to know that, either. His kiss had been sweet, hungry, but also full of need, so responsive to affection she knew he never got. That extremely rare kiss had told her that he cared about her, perhaps even deeply, which was a revelation to her. But she did not think the motivation was entirely romantic. It was something more simple; the need for human contact. He was showing her his vulnerability, not necessarily by choice, and she would respect that. And perhaps even more so, protect herself from disappointment.

Molly made a sudden decision. She moved to him, reached up and slowly undid his scarf, laid it across the arm of the chair. She tried to help him take off his coat, but he was too tall, and he shrugged it off his shoulders for her to take.

"I just want to be here, for a little while more," he said, awkwardly. "I'll take the couch. I don't want to put you out anymore."

"Come on," she invited softly, "there's room enough for two." She laid the coat on the arm of the chair. "Just to sleep."

She shut all the lights off on the way back to her room, and crawled under the covers. It was very silent for a while. But in a few minutes, she heard soft footfalls along the hallway, and soon the edge of the bed dipped down under his weight, the covers lifted. Her back was to him.

"I've had a bad past few months," he finally said, in the darkness.

"You look it," she answered.

There was silence for some time. She felt the bed shift again, and soon she could feel breath at the back of her neck, but they were not touching.

After a few minutes more, he spoke. "I was a junkie, you know."

"I know." She did not know the whole story, but that much had seemed clear.

"That's how I met Lestrade. He arrested me once."

Molly hadn't known that, but it made sense. Neither Sherlock nor Lestrade had ever spoken of that.

"He was… kind to me," Sherlock continued. "Other people have been kind to me, and I've hardly deserved it. You were right, it's hard to live with a drunk. Or a junkie. We just cause pain to everyone."

"You're not a junkie anymore."

"Well, I'm not high. But not much else has changed. I still cause pain to everyone."

"People don't change overnight," Molly said, after some reflection. "But you're getting there."

She rolled over, found her face close to his. "Promise me you won't ever do drugs again. If I find out, I will crucify you, I swear it."

He did not say anything, just stared at her with his watercolor eyes. They both knew he could not promise. He was heading nowhere good and she could not stop him.

"Then tell the people who care about you that you're still alive," she urged. "Do _something_ to save yourself."

He frowned. "Someday. Maybe. When it's safe."

She rolled over, her back to him again, his answers unsatisfactory. In the dark of the night, with confessions all around, she had a few of her own.

"Don't worry about me, or this. You kissed me, and it was everything I ever thought I wanted. But I don't expect more, I know that now. I've never expected to have you, really. I think maybe you're just…alone." She sighed. "Me, too. I always fall for the wrong guys, the ones I know I shouldn't or couldn't ever have." She paused. "It's safer that way. I don't want to fall for anyone who might really love me back. What if I lose them. Like everybody else I ever loved. I couldn't bear it."

She could feel his presence behind her, always electric. Then he said softly, "You do have me. I don't know in what way, but you do. You always have. You make me...care."

Molly sighed, her heart warming at his unexpected words. They were connected, more alike than they had previously known, drawn together like kindred spirits. Neither said any more after that. Sleep overtook them; Sherlock's lips almost against the nape of her neck, the space between them slowly filling in as barriers fell in the dark.

In the morning, Molly woke to find him gone. Like she knew he would be.

She did not see him again for one and a half years.


	11. You Can't Go Home Again

_Two months after the Return: Christmas_

Two years. Two long years and the job was finally done. Moriarty was finished, his network destroyed. Sherlock had returned to London, restored his name, returned to 221B. The people around him were safe. And still…

The return had not gone well. In the long days of his solitude and self-disciplined existence, compartmentalizing all the things he'd done and would not think of again, he had often returned to his Mind Palace, opening the doors and wandering through all the rooms, visiting all the people and places he had known. It was all so vivid to him it almost seemed as if it had been…real. As if the people had been there all along. But they hadn't been. Time had not stood still.

John Watson was the first person he revealed himself to when he returned. John's anger had been immense, and Sherlock had taken a bit of a beating because of it. He still could not quite understand the depth of John's reaction. Surely he understood that the network had to be taken down, for the greater good. They were getting on better now that some time had passed, but things were not the same. John was guarded and more reserved. They still worked together on crime scenes and John was known to pop into 221B for a visit whenever the fancy took him, but the easy companionship they once shared had dissipated. A larger event loomed over everything; John was engaged to Mary Morstan.

Molly had been the next person he visited after John. She showed obvious delight to see him -but she also had thrown up an invisible shield against him which he had felt immediately. He had seen the ring, tried to hide his shock. Then he had felt guarded, too. He didn't know what she felt about the last time they had seen each other, that night at her flat, and frankly he didn't know what to feel, either. A lot had been said that was not typical for him to say.

He remembered with some embarrassment how he had stood awkwardly before her at Bart's, with his split lip and bloody nose thanks to John Watson, fumbling for words. But she had kindly patched him up, largely in silence for which they were both probably thankful, and then he departed to find Lestrade. Who, mercifully, had accepted his return with genuine relief and happiness and not much other fanfare.

He had met Tom, Molly's fiancé, not too long ago at a little gathering to celebrate John and Mary's engagement. It had been like staring into the dull eyes of a paler, placid, puffier version of himself. He shuddered. Similar coat, dark curly hair, and they even tied their _scarf in the same way. _It was not to be borne. He kissed her on the cheek and congratulated her, saying the words but not feeling them. So he avoided it all; Tom, Tom's hideous scarf, and Molly. He even avoided John Watson, so happy with his new life _not_ in 221B. They had all moved on.

He was hungry, then, for the occasional cases that filled his time, occupied his mind, and kept his thoughts from turning to dark and dangerous habits that died too hard. He might have checked his phone too often for a text or a call from a potential client or Lestrade. He was relieved when something _interesting, _a kidnapping_, _finally came through and occupied him for a number of days. Kidnappings were especially interesting to him since he had learned of the Hooper family case.

Sherlock and Lestrade stood by a police car at the end of a long night, cigarettes at the ready. A little girl had been taken for ransom, but Sherlock had easily figured out the perpetrator and they were able to rescue her and return her to her parents. Lestrade leaned towards Sherlock and shielding the lighter from the wind with his hand, lit Sherlock's cigarette first and then his own. Sherlock noticed they had both abandoned the nicotine patches. The winter night was dark, cold and damp.

"Well, glad that one turned out well, for once," Lestrade said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Not always so lucky."

Sherlock savored the smoke, rolled it around in his mouth, and released it into the cold air. "Indeed," he said, agreeing. His thoughts turned back to another time, more than twenty years ago. Molly Hooper's little brother. He looked down at the cigarette in his hand, inspected it for a few moments, flicked some ash. "Did you know about Molly Hooper's brother?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep the tone casual.

Lestrade did a double take, took a quick drag. "She told you that?" He looked surprised and skeptical.

"Hmm, not exactly," he said. "I googled it." He rolled the cigarette around in his fingers, still inspecting it, flicked more ash. "She knows I know." He took another drag, blew it out. "She _told_ you?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Horrible story that."

"Never found the killer? Not even any leads?"

"No, none. I've checked the records myself."

They were both silent for a moment.

"Why did she you tell _you_?" Sherlock finally asked, irritation creeping into his voice. Lestrade had probably known for a much longer time that he had, and the thought was galling.

"It's this thing called conversation," Lestrade said sarcastically. "You know, I ask something about a person and the other person answers. And then that person asks something about _me_ and _I _answer back. _And so on_." He threw his cigarette down, ground it out with his heel. "Like over a beer, when you sit around with your mates. Sometimes we can talk for _hours_." He lingered on the word _hours_ rather dramatically.

Sherlock frowned, and knew that Lestrade hadn't missed it. Lestrade appeared to be amused by his discomfort. Lestrade never missed a chance to needle him a little, but always in fun and never with cruelty. "We're done here, may as well head home. Well, it's not so late, care to grab a pint? Maybe _chat_ a little?" Lestrade was smiling good-naturedly. "C'mon, it's Christmas."

Sherlock almost considered accepting the invitation. He had actually forgot it was Christmas. But he wasn't really in the mood. "Thank you for the invitation, but I'll pass. See you later, Gavin."

"Jesus, it's _Greg_," Lestrade said sarcastically, shaking his head and walking away. "Merry Christmas to you, too."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he walked away. Lestrade wasn't the only one who could needle the other and get a rise. Over the years they had known each other, their ability to exchange subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, needling had grown into a fine art.

An hour later, Sherlock settled into his chair in 221B. His elbows were on the armrests, fingers steepled under his chin. Mycroft had paid the rent to keep the flat from being rented out again. Maddening, this indebtedness to Mycroft, but still, he was glad to still have it. His eyes rested on the red chair opposite him, where John Watson used to sit.

He picked up a book he was reading and thumbed through it to his favorite passage of late that he had read many, many times. The page corner was dog-eared where he had marked it.

… _Son, son, you have been mad and drunken, furious and wild, filled with hatred and despair, and all the dark confusions of the soul - but so have we. You found the earth too great for your one life, you found your brain and sinew smaller than the hunger and desire that fed on them - but it has been this way with all men. You have stumbled on in darkness, you have been pulled in opposite directions, you have faltered, you have missed the way, but, child, this is the chronicle of the earth. And now, because you have known madness and despair, and because you will grow desperate again before you come to evening, we who have stormed the ramparts of the furious earth and been hurled back, we who have been maddened by the unknowable and bitter mystery of love, we who have hungered after fame and savored all of life, the tumult, pain, and frenzy, and now sit quietly by our windows watching all that henceforth never more shall touch us - we call upon you to take heart, for we can swear to you that these things pass._

He set the book down again, and quietly looked out his own window of 221B. It had begun to snow. Thomas Wolfe was right. You can't go home again.


	12. The Back Up Plan

_February, four months after the Return_

Molly was sitting at her desk at work, lost in her musings. She held out her left hand, absently twirling her engagement ring as she looked at it, thinking over the past few months. The day she saw Sherlock Holmes in the mirror in the break room at Bart's, it felt like a powerful storm had just blown into port. They had all been on a steady course that each one of them had fought very hard to maintain during his absence. But within a day all their best laid plans and self-delusions were scattered to the winds.

After he had left her flat for the last time more than one and a half years ago, she found it too hard to see the people she had known because of Sherlock. She hadn't seen John Watson during that time. She had only seen Greg Lestrade on rare occasions at work, when he had police business at the morgue, and she had stopped the self-defense lessons. It was just too difficult to see them. She feared that she might weaken and just blurt it all out. She felt alone, adrift.

So she turned to different social circles. She had met Tom through friends; ironically, their first date being one of the nights Sherlock had stayed with her. One thing had led to another, and they were engaged now. She found it was an easy relationship to fall into. He lived outside of London but came down to stay with her nearly every weekend, or sometimes she went there. They knew the same people, liked a lot of the same things, he had a dog they now shared as their own. She couldn't remember a single time that he had hurt her feelings. They had pleasant conversations. She knew he would buy her flowers for special occasions and get her practical birthday gifts. All in all, it was…nice.

Not long after Sherlock returned, he had invited her out on a day of crime-solving to fill his John Watson vacancy. She could feel herself being drawn towards him again. It was that feeling she got when she was standing on a cliff and gravity was inexorably pulling her down, willing her to jump, to abandon her solid foothold. But unlike Sherlock, she had no well executed back-up plan to keep her from hitting the bottom when she fell. They could all feel it, though; her,

Greg Lestrade, John Watson. They were all hanging out together again, with or without Sherlock, but mostly because of Sherlock. Gathering at 221B, or in the morgue for no particular reason, or sometimes at the pub. Like moths to a flame. But they had learned not to circle too close, or they might get burned.

No matter. She shook her head, tossing her pony tail over her shoulder. It was all water under the bridge now; she had moved on. She had plans to meet Greg Lestrade after work to help her with her self-defense lessons which they had recently started up again. And at the end of the week, Tom would be waiting for her at home. She frowned a little bit as the image of Tom filled her mind, and the words came unbidden again. _Her back-up plan_.


	13. Shattered

March: Five months after the return

Sherlock sat behind the microscope at the lab, his thoughts in furious turmoil, his mood dark. Today, John Watson had asked him to be the best man at the wedding. Not only that, had called him his best friend. Had told him that he was one of the two people in the world he loved the most. It still seemed quite unreal to him. So unreal that it had actually skewed something in his world view, threatened his world order. He sensed a shift happening, as if he had found something and lost it again, all in the same day, and was powerless to hang on.

It had not really occurred to him that people felt …affection for him. He hadn't thought that anyone liked him that much, not really. Tolerated him, yes, because he could be useful to solve their problems or split the rent. He knew people admired his intelligence, and many found him attractive, he could read the signs. But many more called him rude, a psychopath, prick, arrogant…freak. He had grown used to that, armored himself against it. He let only a few get past the armor, and only one he had ever really trusted with his innermost thoughts. Molly Hooper. He knew for sure how she felt about him. He had felt an irresistible pull to go to the lab.

The sound of shattering glass filled the air, breaking the heavy silence that had permeated the lab all afternoon. His mood was dark, but unexpectedly, so was hers. Molly had just returned from a three-day weekend with Tom. They had gone somewhere outside of London for a friend's wedding or something banal like that. She had been roaming the lab and muttering like an angry bear since he'd arrived.

"Shit!" came the sound of Molly Hooper's voice from the other side of the lab.

Sherlock moved away from the microscope, his eyebrows raised. He did not often hear that kind of language come from Molly Hooper. Intrigued, he got up and went around to the other side of the counter to investigate.

A shattered beaker lay on the floor, and Molly was just crouching down beside it.

"Careful," Sherlock warned. "You'll cut yourself."

Molly glanced at him, a look of irritation and rebellion on her face. She ignored him and proceeded stubbornly to pick up a piece of glass. "Shit shit shit!" She said again, jerking her hand away. He saw that there was a cut on her finger, and blood was beginning to pool and drip. She stood up, held her injured finger up in the air. "Sorry, bad day."

Unusual. Molly Hooper typically had an unflappably sunny disposition. She'd said hardly a word to him all afternoon in the lab, had not even spared him a glance, which made him sulky. Maybe her weekend with Tom had not been so rosy. He had a hard time imagining _any_ time spent with Tom would be rosy. The mere thought of Tom was irritating him to irrational extremes; yet another person who threatened his world order, threatened to take away Molly.

Looking at her cradling her wounded finger, he found an excuse to penetrate her silence. "Leave that mess for now. Let's take care of that first." He closed his long fingers around her wrist, guiding her hand towards him. "Let me see."

Molly tried to jerk her hand away, but his grip was stronger. She suddenly teared up. "I'll be fine. It's just a cut. I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks. I'm just having a bad day."

He didn't answer, just frowned and examined her finger with his eyes. "I assume you have a first aid kit." He was useless with words of comfort.

She pointed to a drawer right next to them, and he removed the box, briefly letting go her finger, which she drew away quickly. "It's all right," he tried to reassure her lightly, getting out an antiseptic pad and a plaster, and quickly took back the wounded finger again. "Remember, I'm a graduate chemist," he attempted to joke a little.

Molly scoffed nervously. "And that makes you qualified to administer first aid?"

"Yes, obviously." He stated simply. He set to work and applied the plaster. He thought back to that night almost two years ago, when they had shared their secrets. He had never shared so much with anyone else. He turned her hand over to expose the skin of her wrist and brushed it gently with his fingertips, pausing there. Pale, smooth, and cool - like alabaster. He could see the bluish veins just below the surface of the perfect skin. He ran his fingertips over the skin again, a caress, remembering.

"Your pulse is elevated." He returned his gaze to her face, still with his fingertips resting lightly on her wrist. "Molly Hooper, I would not have suspected that a forensic pathologist would be so affected by the sight of blood," he tried to tease, but his voice trailed off as he saw the play of expressions across her face.

She stared at him, fixated, tensed like a small animal ready to run at the first sign of danger. He could hear her breathe rapidly, could feel her pulse increase beneath his fingers. "You know it's not the sight of blood, you sod," she said quietly. "You know it's you. You know you can still do that to me. I don't know why you're doing it."

He could feel his own pulse quicken. He liked that she was finally noticing him, responding to him. He liked how her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. She tried to pull her hand away again, but Sherlock held it firmly. Right now, he thought, she would look at _him_. Not at Tom, not at Greg Lestrade, not at any of those young, untested men at the Yard who sometimes stopped by the lab with flimsy excuses to visit.

"Maybe I'm just your type," he said softly, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. His head tilted to the side in a somewhat predatory manner. "Is Tom your type?"

Her gaze slid over to his, a look of rebellion returning, issuing a challenge. "Tom is….available. He's nice to me. He pays attention to me."

"I pay attention to you," he protested.

"Sure, when it suits you," Molly scoffed, but then became more somber. "Tom never makes me feel… insignificant."

Sherlock scowled. "You're not insignificant to me," he said roughly. "I've told you that." He moved even closer. "Why would you say that?" He scowled again. He lowered his voice, seductive in tone. He knew he was being a prick, and he didn't care. He wanted her attention, any way he could get it.

"How else does Tom make you feel?" He still held her wrist, and his thumb began to gently stroke the pale skin there, slowly back and forth. "Does Tom make your pulse race like this?"

She would not look at him. "Sometimes, yes."

At her simple admission, something dark and painful filled his heart. "Tom doesn't even know you," he said derisively. "Tom doesn't know the real you, not like I do."

He did not like this Tom, who made Molly try to forget him, who made Molly pay attention to someone else, who made Molly switch her loyalties. He was no longer the center of Molly Hooper's universe, which he had always taken for granted. Everything had changed after he left, everything. He had never imagined he could become less in Molly Hooper's eyes and the realization came as a shock. His reaction was swift and selfish, but he knew no other way when his emotions so rarely surfaced. His head dipped down to her face, his lips, tantalizing, just a few inches away from her own.

"I could take you, you know," he growled. "I could take you from him." He moved closer, just the smallest of space to close now. He waited for her lips to press to his, to close that fateful inch, to prove he was right.

He did not expect it when she stepped back. She stood before him, a little breathless, but with a voice surprisingly fierce and clear.

But really, Sherlock, what would you do with me anyway, once you had me?" she asked, more sad than angry. "I don't flatter myself into thinking this is actually about me. I don't know what's bothering you, but you'd better figure it out."

Carefully avoiding the shattered glass, she grabbed her coat and exited the lab, leaving Sherlock to pick up the pieces.


	14. Did You Ever Love Me

Sherlock sat motionless in his leather chair. He was thinking. It was almost dark in 221B. First the sun had gone down, then the fire had died down to embers in the hearth, then the streetlights had come on, illuminating the room in a pale glow. One elbow was on the armrest, supporting his chin with his hand. In the other hand he held a glass, a 10 year old Laphroaig Islay single malt. The chair across from him seemed very empty.

He heard footsteps on the stair treads, cocked his head in that direction. Not John, too light. Not Lestrade, who usually bounded up the stairs two at a time with enthusiasm, although he did expect him sometime later. These footsteps were feminine. He knew who it was before she even announced herself.

"Molly," he said in acknowledgement. When they parted last in the lab the day before, she had been angry with him. Not angry exactly, more disappointed. It was the disappointment that had gnawed at him for the past few days. He didn't even fully understand why he had acted like he had. Until today, perhaps. Something was beginning to foment at the back of his mind. Something he could not yet face.

"Come to chastise me some more?" he said, flippantly.

She moved into the dark apartment, carefully picking her away across the room, trying not to disturb anything. She removed her knitted mittens and stuffed them in her pockets. She sat across from him, the chair no longer empty. She took off her coat, and the kitten scarf, and laid them beside her. She wore a simple shirt with a pattern of birds and a black skirt with boots. She crossed her feet and perched at the edge of the chair, as if she herself might fly away if startled.

"No," she said. "That's not why I'm here."

"Drink?" he asked, raising his glass in her direction. She nodded. He got up from the chair and prepared another for her and sat down again.

She took a sip, did not flinch at the strong taste of the scotch. "My father's favorite," she said, reminiscing, looking at the scotch. But looked up again, and sighed. "I heard that John Watson asked you to be his best man yesterday morning," she stated simply.

"Hmmm."

"Which explains a few things. And, so….how do you feel about that?"

"Why do you ask?" he replied, casually, guardedly.

"Because I know you." She shrugged. "You probably didn't see that coming."

"No." He agreed. "You are correct." He tipped his drink to her in a salute.

"Are you going to do it?"

He thought for a while. "Yes," he said, now sure. "It's a big honor to be asked. I will do my very best," he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, but laced with a little sarcasm.

She smiled briefly. She picked up the scarf to busy her hands, toyed with the ends of it. "You're sad, I think. It probably seems a lot more real now, John getting married. And now you'll be a part of it."

He exhaled a little impatiently, pricked by her observation and not really wanting to go into it.

"Why are you here?" he said, a little cuttingly.

She sighed. "I just wanted to see if you were ok." She started to get up.

"No, no, no" he said quickly, relenting. "It's all right. Stay." He was oddly reluctant to let her go, despite his somber mood.

She slowly sat down, still perching. "So I think I understand now what's gotten into you. But why don't you tell me yourself, anyway, if you can."

He wasn't good at this sort of conversation, but Molly was here and she was always the one who could coax him to speak on any sort of emotional level. "John Watson told me I was his best friend. Told me I was one of the two people in the world he loved most."

It was difficult to say these things. He had never liked to think about the subject of love much before, preferred the assumption that it was just a chemical defect, a weakness. It alarmed him to realize how much those words from John Watson had affected him.

He set his drink down on the side table. "I didn't know any of that before yesterday morning."

Molly's expression softened. "Sherlock. Do you find that so hard to believe? Did you think you were so unlovable?"

"Aren't I?"

"Most of the time," she teased a little. "But not all the time."

"I'm rude, arrogant, a prick. That's what people tell me."

"That's not all you are. Of course not."

He took a drink from his glass, then leaned forward in his chair, pinning her with his eyes. He needed to understand something. He wasn't exactly sure why, be he needed to know. "Did you love me, ever?" he asked, bluntly.

Molly was startled, embarrassed, at a loss for words. She knotted her hands in her scarf nervously, then stammered, "I…."

He held a hand up. "Don't be alarmed. I just…need to know. It's ….research."

She settled back down, and was quiet for long time.

"Why not," she said, almost to herself, and sighed heavily. She was choosing her words carefully. "The first time you ever came into the lab, it was like love at first sight for me. Those first few years I knew you, I was mad for you. You were so brilliant, so handsome, so….different. It was like magic to me, just to be around you. The atmosphere literally changed when you walked into the room."

She took a drink of liquid courage, but began to frown, then the words tumbled out, faster now. "But that's not all I ever felt for you. I hated you sometimes. You could be so mean, so very mean. I asked myself a thousand times why I should ever give you the time of day again."

He took another drink, then swirled the scotch in the glass, watched the distorted embers of the hearth through the amber liquid. "Why did you, then?"

"They say it's a fine line between love and hate," she replied flippantly, but then grew a little more serious. "I already told you that part a while ago, I always fall for the sociopath."

She smiled a little. "But there's more than that. Sherlock, there's a lot to admire about you. I really believe you can help people. You can make a difference. That's what makes it worth putting up with all your bullshit."

Sherlock refused to be distracted by her words, his mind still stuck on the same track. "Did I make you stop loving me, because I was so horrible?"

"Why are you asking me this?" she was flustered.

"You didn't answer."

She looked down at her hands, still toying with the ends of her scarf. "It wasn't like that. We just weren't meant to be together, in that way. I thought we already established that. Besides, I have a fiancé now."

"I don't see what that has to do with it." He was observing her intently now. "Do you stop loving one person because you begin to love another?"

"No," she whispered. "Not always. Things are never that simple."

"Can you love someone even when they don't love you back?"

"Yes." Again she answered softly.

"Can you love someone who doesn't deserve it?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"You loved me when I didn't deserve it."

"Yes."

"Why?" he demanded, loudly.

"I don't know why. We don't always choose who we love," she answered a little desperately, the line of questioning beginning to agitate her. She paused. "But unrequited love doesn't last forever. People need something back. Or they move on, eventually."

His memory of the lab flooded him again, and it stung him. "Why are you here?" he asked again, still angry. "At the lab. I thought we quarreled. I don't know why you're trying to be nice to me now."

"I'm just trying to understand you." She paused and seemed to think for a moment, frowned. "I don't want to talk about love right now, it's confusing for me. I don't know what I feel for Tom anymore. There's a lot in my life that's confusing right now."

"You're the only one I can talk to about things like this," Sherlock said, darkly, clearly sad and hurting.

"No, not true," she said gently, shaking her head. "It hurts me to see you sad like this. I'm going to hug you and you can't stop me," she said with determination, a little saucily. "I am enacting the Molly Hooper Desensitization Program. You need to be hugged more often. And learn to like it."

She got up, and to his surprise, she walked over to him and slid into his lap sideways, put her arms around his neck for a hug, and held on for a while. Startled, he was motionless for a few seconds, unsure what to do. But then he set the drink on the side table, and he awkwardly put an arm around her, pulling her to his chest where she rested her cheek.

"I won't be the only one you can talk to like this," Molly said quietly. "I'm just the first."

Sherlock wanted to believe her. It felt nice to have her leaning against him, an anchor in a storm. She then said, completely shocking him, "It's not too late to tell him how you feel. He's not married yet."

His breath escaped him in a small burst, his chest heaving. She had said aloud what he had not even dared to think.

"Sherlock, you and I are just helping each other get to where we need to go. Maybe that's what we mean to each other. Maybe we're teaching each other how to …make better decisions. How to care. Really care for someone else," Molly finished.

As usual, as far as emotions went, her perceptiveness far outraced his own. He remained silent, but absently ran a hand through her long hair spilling down her back.

"Friends again?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Friends," he agreed, and finally smiled.

She leaned against him again, apparently happy with the resolution. "You know I never stopped loving you, you stupid git," she said.

A floorboard creaked. Both Sherlock and Molly turned their heads toward the sound.

Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs to 221B, phone in hand, a look of shock on his face that he was trying hard to hide. For perhaps the first time ever in history, Lestrade had come up the stairs quietly, Sherlock thought with some dismay. Probably walking up slowly and carefully as he tried to simultaneously text, judging by the position of the phone in his hand.

This probably didn't look good.

Molly slid out of Sherlock's lap and stood up, smoothing out her skirt with both hands.

"Hello, Greg," she said, a little nervously. "I was just…well, we were just….oh, hell. I was just leaving."

"Molly and I were just talking about John's wedding," Sherlock said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Yeah," said Lestrade slowly, his eyes going from Sherlock to Molly and back to Sherlock. "That's _exactly_ what that looked like."

Molly picked up her coat. "I'll see you both later, then?" she said, and quickly made her exit, Greg Lestrade turning to watch her leave.

Quite a few moments passed after Molly left before Lestrade turned back to Sherlock, his face now controlled.

"Donovan is in the car downstairs," he said. "There's a crime scene I wanted you to look at. Can you come?"

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. "I need a minute to get ready."

"I'll be in the car," Lestrade said roughly, and walked out.


	15. Unforgiven

The next evening, Sherlock was just coming out the door of 221B buttoning his coat, when he was startled to hear a voice in the twilight. He recognized it instantly.

"So it's true."

Lestrade was leaning against his car outside the flat, cigarette in hand. Shutting the door behind him, Sherlock stepped down to the sidewalk and moving forward slowly, brushed his hair back with his hand. He thought he might know what this unannounced visit was about.

"Lestrade," he acknowledged, warily, on the defensive.

"I didn't want to believe it, but it's true." Lestrade threw his cigarette down on the ground. "I'm not stupid, you know. I can see what's going on." Lestrade stepped away from the car. "I'd heard rumors over the years, you know how people talk…I wondered…but I honestly just couldn't believe it. I know she used to be crazy for you but I never thought that you…"

He suddenly pointed at Sherlock aggressively. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Donovan last night. But I swear to you, I will fucking take you out if you hurt her."

Sherlock started to say something, but closed his mouth again. What was there to say. He didn't feel he had anything to explain, it was nobody else's business.

Lestrade continued, angry. "You may not get this, but I happen to actually care about Molly."

Sherlock hesitated a long moment. "I know," he finally said, quietly. It had been obvious for a long time.

Lestrade pointed at him again. "You bastard." He looked away, enraged by the simple answer.

Sherlock slowly pulled his gloves out of his pocket, put them on one by one. "It's not what you think."

"Oh, really."

"It's not what you think," he repeated. "We're not _involved_." That much was true. He felt stubborn and prickly, cornered like a naughty school boy being lectured in the Principal's office.

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Look. You're my friend, or at least I thought you were. I respect your intellect more than just about anyone else in the world. And deep down, I think you're probably even a good guy." He paced a bit. "I didn't say a word when Tom came around. But you, _you_ are a whole different story. You are _nowhere_ near safe."

"Molly can take care of herself," Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, she can," Lestrade agreed. "But let me just remind you of something. Maybe you've forgot she's engaged."

Sherlock's brows knitted. He hadn't forgotten. "Have _you_?" Sherlock pushed back, provoking.

Lestrade's hand rubbed his hair, distraught, ignoring Sherlock. "The point is, she should be happy. Whether it's Tom, or god forbid, _you_, she should be happy. Do you think you can make her happy?"

"Can _you_?"

"Do you always answer a question with another bloody question?" Lestrade snapped, then dug in his pocket for his cigarettes.

Sherlock didn't answer. He contemplated the man standing before him. He had known him a long time, but they'd never had a conversation quite like this, veering into such personal territory. Lestrade was a walking oxymoron in many ways; capable of remarkable self-restraint, but often very emotionally demonstrative. He could be tough to gentle, plebian to intellectual, blunt to subtle, snarky to sweet, rude to kind. He had the rare talent of making the right choice of which of those attributes to display, when it really counted.

Although Lestrade was much more complex than many people gave him credit for, he was not particularly difficult to interpret, even for him. Whatever he was feeling at just that moment was usually stamped on his face; anger, happiness, sadness, drunk, fear, determination, confusion…love.

Oh. So that's how it was. It hit Sherlock in the heart, he felt that twinge of jealousy. But he tried to quell it. He also felt, quite possibly, a twinge of…empathy. Or something like that. He should just tell Lestrade how it was between him and Molly, but he didn't. Prick extraordinaire that he was.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Look. I didn't mean any harm," he said. He really hadn't.

Lestrade flicked his lighter. The tip of the cigarette glowed in the dark. He sighed audibly. "I know you didn't." He took a drag, looked at Sherlock, more calm now. "That's the thing. Maybe you don't mean to. But you do, you always do."

He took another drag, then pointed at Sherlock with the cigarette. "Listen to me carefully. You see, here's the thing. When you care about someone, you want them to be happy. Even if you aren't a part of that picture, you want what's best for them." He looked at his cigarette in his hand. "You have to step off if things aren't right. If the timing's not right. Sometimes it's just never the fucking right time." He sounded defeated.

"Like for you and Molly," Sherlock finished. _Like for himself_, Sherlock thought.

"Yeah," Lestrade said bitterly. "Like for me and Molly. A few little things in the way, like my wife. My divorce. Tom. _You_. Never the fucking right time."

Sherlock dug in his pocket, got out his own cigarette. "Why do you spend so much time with her, then? It must be painful."

_Why did he do the same with John? Why plan a wedding? Why be Best Man?_ He knew firsthand it was painful.

Lestrade shrugged. "I'd rather have her in my life in any way possible, rather than not at all. I like being with her. "

Lestrade took a long last drag, threw his second cigarette on the ground, returned to his car. He put his hand on the door and opened it, but before he got in, he said, "You had just better get this right." He paused. "Don't expect any calls from the Yard. I don't want to see you around for a while. I'm sure we can manage, we're not all idiots." The car door slammed.

Sherlock watched him drive away. He stared at the cigarette in his hand he had taken out before Lestrade left, and finally lit it, still standing in place on the sidewalk. As he watched the tip glow in the growing darkness, he was reminded of another evening weeks ago, before things had gotten complicated with Lestrade. It had stuck in his mind all this time, like an echo that kept rebounding over and over, begging for attention but he hadn't known why.

It had been a chilly night with a mist in the air. He had just finished practicing his judo with a sparring partner. It kept his reactions sharp and muscles toned. The studio was not far from Scotland Yard. He stopped in a doorway, out of the rain, to light up a cigarette. He stared out into the dark night, listening to the rain, watching the smoke trail away in grayish twining strands. Traffic passed in both directions, the tires softly splashing against the puddles forming on the pavement. He remembered how still his mind had been at just that moment, almost blissfully empty but for watching the smoke in the air. The practice of judo had that effect on him. Muscles remembered the necessary movements, each action performed with precision, an endless repetition of striving for perfection repeated year after year. Let the body take over; don't think, just do.

He had heard voices across the street and recognized them as Molly and Lestrade. They were just coming out of another gym that was across the street, which was more oriented to exercise equipment and courts for playing various ball games. They must have finished another round of self-defense lessons. He could not make out what they were saying, but he could hear the higher notes of Molly's laugh and Lestrade's answering baritone voice. Their interaction seemed so easy, not fraught with tension or uncertainty or a constant battle to find the right words like he always felt.

The rain was letting up, and Lestrade had stopped under a streetlight, Molly at his side. Sherlock recalled how it looked almost like an Impressionist painting; an intimate tableau of two people, blurred through a filter of mist, silhouetted in a golden pool of light fading into darkness all around the edges, unaware they were being observed. Lestrade had fished in his coat pocket for his packet of cigarettes and placed one between his lips. He was just getting ready to light it when Molly suddenly moved to stand right in front of him, very close. Lestrade's hand stopped moving, unlit cigarette still in mid-air, looking down at her while his eyes searched her face. Sherlock now knew Lestrade was hoping to find what he wanted to see.

Molly reached up and, smiling, gently plucked the cigarette from his lips. She held out her other hand and looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to give up his stash. After a beat, Lestrade shook his head and laughed a little, nodded, then handed over the rest of the pack. Lestrade made a gesture pointing down the street and he asked her something. She nodded in return and they began to move away, Lestrade just lightly resting a hand on her arm for a few seconds as he guided her around a puddle.

Sherlock remembered how he had felt an uncharacteristic longing in his chest, wondering if she would ever have dared to get in his personal space to reach up and gently take a cigarette from him like that. He had imagined it so vividly he could almost feel it; a light brush of alabaster fingers across his lips, the sudden absence of the soft weight of the cigarette, a pair of chocolate brown eyes looking up into his own, trusting that he would do the right thing.

Coming back to the present, Sherlock looked down at the cigarette he had forgotten he was holding, now just a chain of fluffy ash on the end. A slow burn. That's what they were, Molly and Lestrade, he knew with sudden clarity. A slow burn that would suddenly ignite with searing intensity, before it was all said and done. Things needed to be cleared away; miscommunications, shadows of untimely lovers past and present, the unrelenting inertia of the status quo. They just needed some air in order to burn. That was why he remembered them so clearly under the streetlight. He could see what was happening, even if they couldn't.

He threw the butt to the ground, did not take out another. He had lost the taste for it now, anyway. He pulled his coat closer around him and adjusted his scarf, as if going into battle. There was something he needed to do. He looked at his watch, mentally calculated the time it would take for Lestrade to head to his favorite pub, which was not far from the Yard. Sherlock knew he would find him there.

The pub was a bit of a hole in the wall, full of locals and only the bravest of tourists able to ignore the stares when they ordered a pint. Although not a tourist, Sherlock thought he may as well have been an alien for all the states he got when he walked into the pub with his long black coat billowing out behind him. He spotted Lestrade at the bar, pint already in hand, watching a football match on a flat screen bolted to the wall above the bar. There was an empty seat next to him and he slipped into it, flipping his coat out behind him over the chair.

Lestrade momentarily pulled his attention away from the football match to glance at Sherlock, then back to the screen again. He didn't show any surprise, or much interest for that matter, in seeing him suddenly appear. At least he didn't look ready to punch him like before, Sherlock thought with some relief.

Lestrade got the attention of the bartender and motioned for him to set Sherlock up with a beer which was soon placed before him, a head of foam on top and droplets cascading down the side.

"Thank you," Sherlock said carefully, unsure of Lestrade's motives, eyeing him warily. He took an exploratory taste of the beer, found it acceptable, took a longer pull. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Lestrade, who shook his head.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Finally, Lestrade gave in and sighed heavily. "You know, I didn't really see all this coming. I can't say I know much about your private life. That's your own business, except where it concerns one person." He became cross. "Jesus. Really? Molly?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. He was going to come clean, all of it. "There are some things you don't know."

Lestrade snorted. "No shit."

"You know she helped me fake my death."

"Yeah, that I know."

"When everyone thought I was dead, I stayed with her. A few times. In her flat." He thought back in time, some fond memories came to mind. "She has a horrible cat. She makes good tea. She can stitch up head wounds. She's an exquisite painter, did you know that?" He paused, then added more carefully, "She has excellent taste in linens. She gave me her bed."

Lestrade's grip increased dangerously on his beer glass.

"We never slept together." He reconsidered that statement, then carefully chose his words. "Let me retract that. We did not have sex. Technically, we did sleep together on her bed, once. Another two times I slept in her bed, but alone. Also, I kissed her one time. I tried to another time but she wouldn't have it. And there was that one time she hugged me quite extensively." He paused to take a sip of his beer, his eyes shifting from left to right. "But you already know about that one."

The look on Lestrade's face indicated to Sherlock that he did not know whether to be relieved or pissed off at what he had just said. Sherlock spoke again quickly, hopeful to downplay the situation. "So you see, it's not as bad as you imagined."

"It sounds plenty bad enough, thanks." He took another drink, shot a dark look at him. "You just always do exactly what you like, don't you? No matter the consequences. You have no idea how to respect, you know, _boundaries_."

"Boundaries?" Sherlock asked, his brows furrowing. "Such as?"

Lestrade held up his hand and pointed at his own empty ring finger. "Like what a ring on a finger means, dumbass," he said sarcastically. "She's promised to marry someone else. And if Tom weren't around…well, there was already a queue." He pointed with exaggeration to himself.

Sherlock took a drag of his cigarette, tapped it in the ashtray. "I've told you everything. It's not what you think. We are…attached, is the best way I can describe it. It's deep, I don't deny that. But it's not like you imagine. There was a time she was the only one who knew I was alive, besides my brother. I don't connect easily to people and I don't like it when I think someone could take her away from me. Like Tom. Or you, for that matter. I don't react well when threatened."

Lestrade relented, just slightly. Pushed his beer glass around a little. "Really. There's nothing between you?"

"Not like that, not now." Sherlock reflected. "Whatever there might have been happened years ago, and I was the one to ruin that chance." He did feel a twinge of regret, for what might have been. But since then his heart had set a different course, and although uncharted, it was true and steady. If only on his part. The thought made him melancholy, then a little angry.

Christ, Lestrade wasn't his handler, Sherlock thought, suddenly annoyed again with all the lecturing. He turned and pointed at him. "It all happened years ago when you were still married or just getting divorced. Still married, I might add, with your eye on Molly Hooper in that black dress and contemplating infidelity at a Christmas party."

Lestrade let out a short, sarcastic bark of a laugh. "Well, _I've_ never stayed over in her flat! I don't know anything about her cat or linens or paintings or tea, either." He gritted his teeth. "I might have contemplated, as you put it, that's true enough. I never acted on it, though. Not when I was married or while she's been engaged." He looked down at his beer. "You've always said so yourself, I'm a conventional guy. Too conventional and lacking in imagination. You never miss a chance to say it in front of everyone down at the Yard. But, as you are now aware, my imagination is actually extremely _active."_

This was getting tiresome. Sherlock drummed his fingertips on the countertop. "I've told you everything. Think whatever you like," Sherlock said, then exhaled in exasperation. "Nobody's committed any crimes in all this. It's not like she's married, anyway. Or likely to be any time soon."

Lestrade gave him a startled look. "And just how have you deduced _that_?"

"Tom was obviously only a pale substitute for me in the first place. She doesn't need me anymore so she doesn't need Tom. Tom is doomed. I give him two months, tops."

Lestrade sat back in his chair, the expression on his face changing rapidly from sudden hope and then back to anger again.

"A substitute for _you_? It's always about you, isn't it?" Lestrade just shook his head in disbelief. Then he hesitated, crossed is arms in front of himself and seemed to think about something. "Christ on a bike. He does look like you." He continued to mumble to himself. "Sort of. Tall, thin….the scarf, and the coat. That bloody hair."

A veil then fell over Lestrade's face. Lestrade went back to focusing his attention on the football match, but Sherlock could see in his profile the tension in the set of his jaw, the grim compression of his lips, a flexing tendon in the neck. Lestrade was trying to keep his cool, but the depth of his emotion was evident.

"Do you know," Lestrade said, finally. "I felt it the very first time I ever saw her. The very first time. What would that be now, five years ago? When she started at the morgue. Sometimes I had to go down there, talk to the family with the pathologist, help them understand what happened. That was always the worst part of the job, for me. On that day I walked in, I was a little late, and she was sitting there talking to the family. I didn't even know who she was, it was about her first week on the job. She was just so…good at it. She was so good with that family. I remember I sat down and…just listened, while she talked to them. They felt better, Jesus, I felt better. I loved listening to her. I still do. She was so gentle, and kind, but professional, and smart. She has this way about her. You know she sees you, right through you. And accepts you, despite it all. Something just...I don't know how to say it…it felt like something just fell into place inside me that day."

Sherlock felt he was getting in too deep. He knew all that. Too well. This was way over his head, more than he wanted to know about Lestrade, more than he could bear to know. He discovered there were boundaries, after all.

"So," Sherlock said, pushing his drink aside and laying both hands on the counter before him. This conversation had come to an end. He searched for words to finish. "There were times you were my only… friend. I didn't mean to cause you any pain." He pushed himself up off the barstool, preparing to exit. "I just thought you should know how things really are. There is nothing going on. You may officially stop raving about it now."

Lestrade briefly returned his attention to him. "Yeah, well, you are not forgiven," he said with a bit of snark, then turned back to the screen.

Sherlock paused to put on his gloves and turned to leave, but hesitated a moment. He had one last thing to say. "When Tom is gone -and he will be - don't waste your chance when you get it. And you should probably tell all this to her, instead of yelling at me."

_And he should have talked to John Watson instead of taking it out on Molly Hooper._

He spun on his heel. He didn't wait for a reply, didn't even want to see his reaction. Lestrade was a good man. Better than himself in the ways that counted most between people where emotions were concerned. An area in which he was definitely deficient. Molly deserved someone like Lestrade. Loyal, honest, demonstrative. If he could tolerate anyone with Molly Hooper, it was Greg Lestrade.

He didn't want to think about this anymore. He pushed the door open with both hands and exited to the street.

Definitely not his area.


	16. The Crow

Molly felt strangely full of energy, her mind bursting with creative ideas that she itched to put on canvas. She was working on finishing a painting. She had set up an easel in the spare bedroom, which she used as her studio whenever she was involved in a creative project.

She had last seen Sherlock two days ago, when she had gone to 221B. Something about that conversation had freed her in ways she didn't yet fully understand. She took the tarp off the painting she was currently working on, and sat down in front of it on a simple chair. The painting featured a large, black crow perched atop its nest in the crook of a winter tree stripped of its leaves. The crow had its back to the wind and its feathers were pushed up in a ruff around its neck.

She had thought long and carefully about the crow's nest. She imagined what the crow might want to collect, what shiny objects that would catch its observant eye, what things of value it would want to steal. In the nest she was painting, the crow had stashed a number of things. A sparkling diamond engagement ring. The golden casing of a bullet. A clear piece of broken glass. The torn and tattered piece of an old white scarf with a pattern of kittens on it, woven into the twigs. A silver surgical needle. A fully sized anatomically correct human heart, red and wet.

There should be room to add one more thing, aesthetically speaking, she mused, but she would wait for the object to show itself to her. In the meantime she would work on perfecting the limbs of the tree, focus on the texture of the bark. She found she could spend hours painting and not even notice the time pass whenever she was really absorbed in her work.

She was roused from her concentration when a shadow passed over the canvas. She looked up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway. She hadn't heard a thing. So like him to just come in announced, entering her flat through dubious methods. It didn't even surprise her any more.

He looked down at his gloved hand, which was closed around something, and opened it to reveal a glittering silver key reflecting the overhead light. "I stole the spare the last time I was here," he said, a slight smile on his face, unrepentant. The crow himself, she thought, lapels up like a ruff around his neck.

"I let myself in with this this," he said, holding up the key. "I felt like taking one last liberty, where you're concerned. I've done a lot of that with you, haven't I? Too much. I'm giving you back this key, so you know I won't do it again."

Molly smiled at him. A vaguely worded but otherwise sincere Sherlockian apology for his past transgressions.

Sherlock came around to her side of the easel to give her the key, and looked at the painting. He looked particularly closely at the crow, as well as the objects in the nest.

"Wait a minute," he said, "that's me, isn't it? Is that crow me?" He looked down at her accusingly, but he was also amused.

Molly laughed a little. "Well, it's better than the dead pigeon, don't you think?"

"Only slightly. There's a human heart in that nest." He shook his head ruefully. "It's well done, though, as usual."

Molly smiled to herself, feeling the hard metal of the key in her hand. The last piece. The key to freedom, letting her in or out, she wasn't sure. The painting would soon be done.


	17. I Missed You

Molly sat in a chair beside an empty desk outside of Greg Lestrade's office. He wasn't there, but she'd asked around, and his colleagues said he was expected back shortly. She decided she would wait. She'd been called in by Tobias Gregson, another DI, about a murder trial so she had spent the afternoon at the Yard. Funny. Greg Lestrade always came to her, but everyone else made her come to the Yard.

She was actually a little nervous. She had never been nervous to see Greg Lestrade before. Not once. Not in all the times they had gone to the gym, had a pint, or chatted over a dead body at work. But she knew something had changed since he'd seen her at 221B that night. It was hard to know what he had or hadn't heard, but probably from looks alone it would be easy to misinterpret things. It bothered her to think he might have the wrong idea, more than she cared to admit.

She had decided to track him down after he had turned down a series of meetings they were supposed to have for their self-defense lessons with excuses of being "busy." She had even sweetened the offer with promises of pints at the pub afterwards, which normally worked like a charm, but nothing was getting through. She usually saw him at least once a week, sometimes several times, between their workouts and the occasional stop he made by the morgue for business. Sometimes not for business, just to chat. It was possible he was busy….but somehow, it felt more personal. This had gone on for several weeks and enough was enough.

Molly was drawn from her reverie by loud voices coming in at the far end of the room. Lestrade and Donovan, their voices unmistakable.

"Can you believe what that little shit did," Lestrade was saying, complaining loudly. "Now I'm going to have to buy a new suit jacket. It's totally ripped up."

"That _is_ bad news for you," Donovan replied, "seeing as that's the only one you have."

"I would like to inform you that I do, in fact, own two," he said. "I bought two of the same jacket, so it just seems like one."

The voices came closer. ""Well, think of it as an opportunity to upgrade your look," Donovan replied dourly.

"I don't have time to think about that kind of stuff…." Lestrade started to say, but then stopped when he caught sight of Molly.

Sally Donovan also saw Molly, rolled her eyes, and walked away to sit at her desk. Molly didn't miss Donovan's reaction. They weren't exactly friends. They stood on different sides of the fence where Sherlock was concerned, amongst other things.

"Molly," he said, obviously surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here. Is everything ok?"

"Fine," she said distractedly, frowning as she looked at him up close. "I was just down here on business. Had to talk to Tobais Gegson, that other DI, about a murder trial." There was blood spattered all over his shirt, and a big tear through the suit jacket and the shirt underneath. She wasn't interested in talking about herself. "Are you ok? What happened?!"

He followed her gaze and looked down at his shirt. "Seems that some kid who didn't want to be arrested had a knife that I didn't know about."

"Is that your blood or his?" she asked, concerned.

"Mostly his, I think. Seems he got a bit of a bloody nose somehow." He opened his door, stood back for her to walk through it before him, then shut it behind them.

Once in the office, he took off his jacket and pulled up the tail of his shirt to inspect beneath the torn fabric. "Jesus, he actually got me, that little prick. Just a scratch though. Lucky."

There was indeed a red scratch on the surface of the skin, just enough to cause a minor amount of blood to raise on the surface, which had already stopped bleeding. It would not amount to anything to worry about.

Molly sat down slowly on a chair, a little dazed. "You could have been badly hurt."

"Maybe. If I thought too much about those kinds of 'near misses' I'd never get up in the morning." He shrugged, pragmatic as always. "I'll show you why it was lucky, though." He reached into the pocket of his torn jacket, pulled out his silver lighter, tossed it to her.

She caught it and inspected it. There was a small dent and a jagged scratch marring the formerly smooth surface. She looked back at him, questioning him with her eyes.

"My lighter caught the brunt of it. If that hadn't happened, then yeah, could have been bad. The knife glanced right off and just nicked me." He stopped to catch the lighter that Molly tossed back, slid it into the front pocket of his trousers. "Looks like I picked a good time to not quit smoking."

Molly had no good reply to that, she did not even want to think about the risks that he was probably regularly exposed to. It made her feel a little dizzy.

"Well, all in a day's work," he said resignedly, going behind his desk and opening a drawer. He took out another neatly folded plaid shirt. "This kind of stuff happens often enough I have to keep an extra supply here. I've got a whole wardrobe in here."

Molly waved her hand in casual dismissal of his words. "I get it. I work in a morgue. You should see what gets on my clothes."

He started to unbutton his shirt and got almost all the way down before he stopped and looked up at her again, as if feeling her gaze on him. She was blushing and quickly looked away, pretended to study some interesting framed certificates on the wall. From the corner of her eye she saw him smile to himself before he turned around and then shrugged off the torn and bloody shirt and put on the new one.

For a brief moment, as one shirt came off and the other went on, she caught a glimpse of something large and dark on his back. Something, if she was not mistaken, that appeared to be a giant, black tattoo of a snarling wolf. Her jaw dropped in surprise.

"Did I just see…..." she started to say, and then blushed again, knowing she had been caught looking again.

He turned back around, finishing the top few buttons of the new shirt. "See what?" he asked innocently, shrugging.

"You know what," she retorted, blushing furiously again. "How did I never see that before? All those times at the gym. I never saw it."

"So remind me. When was the last time I took my shirt off in front of you?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, never," she had to admit, flustered. But then she felt like revealing one of her own little secrets. She loved tattoos, always had. Even had a little one of her own, a small black silhouette of a bird in flight, in the shape of a V, at the base of her tailbone. It appealed to the artist in her.

"I have one, too," she confided.

"Reeally," he said, drawing out the word in semi-disbelief. "I've never seen it."

"So remind _me_. When was the last time I undressed in front of _you_?"

His hands stilled on the last button he had just finished. He stared at her intently, then blinked a few times and raised an eyebrow yet again. "Touché."

Molly smiled. "But I can't believe I didn't know that about you. You've been holding out on me," she accused. She could still see the wolf flashing before her, but it was incomplete, she had only got a glance.

It was suddenly quiet in the room, as Lestrade did not answer right away. "So it seems there are some things I didn't know about you, either," he said, his face more serious and frowning. She didn't think he was talking about tattoos anymore. Things were stirring just beneath the surface.

He walked over to a coat rack in the corner of the office and picked up another suit jacket, presumably the second identical jacket. He slid it over his shoulders and adjusted his shirt collar.

"Yes, well," Molly said, taking advantage of the segue provided by Lestrade. "That's why I'm here. We need to talk. Since you keep avoiding me I've been forced to track you down here."

He seemed to think for a moment, then let out his breath. "Yeah, ok. We do. I've got to finish some paperwork here eventually, especially after this knife fiasco. But I could use a break. There's a coffee shop across the street. I could really use a beer about now but I'm going to have to clock back in, so coffee it is."

They settled into a booth at a deserted coffee shop just across the street from the Yard, one on either side of the table. They ordered and were silent until it arrived a few minutes later.

The cup of steaming coffee between her hands, Molly finally said, "Look. What you saw at 221B. Is that what's bothering you? Why you've been avoiding me?"

He didn't say anything for a long time. "I just thought I knew you both, is all."

"Nobody really knows Sherlock," Molly said. "You mean me. You thought you knew me."

He looked away, out the window at the street.

"It's not what you think," she said.

At her words, he looked quickly back at her. "So I've been told."

"By who?" Molly asked, surprised.

"Sherlock."

"Oh." Molly leaned back against the booth, reflective. That seemed weird. Weird to think they had talked about it. When had that happened? "What did he say?"

"The same exact thing as you." He took a sip of his coffee. "And more. Actually he told me a lot more things about you. Things I didn't know. Like you make good tea. And you're a painter. I didn't know you painted."

'Oh," Molly said again, embarrassed her secret was out.

"I'd like to know those things. We've been friends a long time. I'd like to know you better."

"Oh. Well. I never tell anyone I paint. Sherlock just knows because…" she hesitated. "Because he stayed with me. So I guess you know about that."

He nodded, but didn't look happy about it. "I know about that."

"Oh," she said again, for the fourth time, then took a sip of her coffee. There was a part of her that could understand that he felt left out. She didn't entirely understand the relationship between Lestrade and Sherlock. They were friends, of a sort, but also a little competitive. She wanted to understand why.

"Well, now I've told you some about my past with Sherlock. Maybe you can tell me a little about your past with Sherlock. I've always been curious. How did you meet?"

He looked surprised, but after a long moment's thought, he looked more resigned. "Now there's a story."

"He said you arrested him?"

"Yes I did." He picked up his coffee, took another sip. "It's no big secret that Sherlock had problems with drugs in the past, so none of this should really surprise you. You sure you want to know all this?"

Molly nodded eagerly. "Did Sherlock know your wife?"

She thought about the Christmas party, and how Sherlock would have known about the PE teacher. How he had known had always bothered her. It implied he knew her.

"Lola?" Again he was surprised, this time at the mention of his ex-wife. "Yes." But he shrugged and continued. "Sherlock actually knew my wife before he knew me. She was his substance abuse counselor. She told me about him before I ever met him. Lola said the first time she ever saw him in the rehab facility, at their very first session, she barely got a word in edgewise. He analyzed everything about her, just took her apart completely. "Deduced her," as we know now. He even knew everything about me, about our marriage, just from a look at her and her office. He ran circles around her every time."

Molly learned forward, interested.

He shook his head. "A few weeks after that, I was on a drugs bust, and we picked up some of the junkies, some who were getting a little out of hand with the officers. I ended up having to take one of them down to the station. Who do you think I found in the backseat of the car, handcuffed, high as a kite? Yeah, Sherlock. Well I didn't know it was him right then, but didn't take too long to put two and two together. He called me by my name. Asked me how my wife was doing. Remember, now, we'd never met until just then. Asked me if I knew the name of the new male psychologist at the rehab clinic, because my wife was shagging him, just thought I should know." He paused then, remembering, a frown crossing his face. "Yeah. Well, I should have paid more attention to that, but at the time I didn't, thought he was making it up just to rattle another dumb cop."

Lestrade paused to take another sip of coffee, and then continued.

"Well, so we get back to the station and I put him in a cell with a couple of other guys. When I pull him out a few hours later, he continues to tell me about every guy in the cell, and whether or not they are innocent or guilty, about every last fucking detail about every one of them. No way could he have known any of it. As far as I know, he never even talked to them, the guards swear he never did. And damn if he wasn't right. Unreal."

He ran a hand over his chin, lost in memory. "But that's not the end of it. So, I get called up to my superior's office and find someone waiting there for me. Mycroft. Mycroft Fucking Holmes. Suddenly I'm informed that all charges against Sherlock are dropped and that he should be released immediately. The Superintendent just tells me to do what he says. So I do."

As he spoke, Molly's eyes grew wider. She'd had no idea. How could she know these people all these years and not know these things. It seemed they were all very good at keeping secrets from each other. But she said nothing, just listened.

Lestrade continued. "A few days later, I get another visit from Mycroft Holmes. He returns a pair of handcuffs and an ID I didn't even know I was missing." He laughed a little at that memory. "He asks me…he asks me if I would be willing to help "look out" for his little brother. He points out that I surely must have noticed his unusual intelligence. And maybe that intelligence could be put to better use. I had to agree. Sherlock was the most fascinating, intelligent, unconventional person I had ever met, and I wanted to help him."

He sighed. "Hell, I also knew he could help me, I wasn't completely altruistic. I've known him almost 10 years. For the first five years, Lola and I saw more of him than I do now. He needed the attention, supervision, whatever it is you want to call it. If you think the Sherlock you know now is a little on the edge, you should imagine what a 20-something, unfocused, out of control junkie genius was like. Fucking terrifying."

Molly thought about that. Had to agree.

"So, that's the story," he said. "There's a lot of history between me and Sherlock. A lot. All that past history with Sherlock is so intertwined with Lola, I just don't like to talk about it much. It's just not worth dredging it all up again."

He leaned forward again, took hold of the coffee between his two hands, staring into the dark liquid. "Sherlock and I have had our differences, that's for sure. But I care about him, I really do. Underneath all that shit he's a good man, I really believe that. Or will be, someday."

A few seconds passed before he spoke again. "I'm not an educated man, Molly. But I've worked hard to get where I am. I worked hard to teach myself about the things that interest me. I read all the time. If you like to paint in your spare time, I like to read. I know I'm not stupid, but next to him…. Well, there's never been a man I admired so much." He paused again, then looked up right at her, his gaze intense. "Or envied so much."

"Oh," she said, for the fifth time. She was counting. He had had a habit since they started this conversation of making her nearly speechless. The way he was looking at her made her feel the undercurrents again.

He continued to hold her gaze for a moment, then looked away, out the window again. Silence permeated the air for a while, but he finally spoke. "So, really, there's nothing between you and Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

"Really," she said.

He said nothing, but his jaw worked a little. He crossed his arms in front of him, still looking out the window.

She sighed in exasperation. "He loves John Watson. So, don't worry. Sherlock Holmes isn't going to break my heart."

Startled, he quickly looked at her. Now it was his turn to say, simply, "Oh." He uncrossed his arms and leaned towards the table again, reaching for the coffee. He twirled his nearly empty cup between his hands. "Did he actually tell you that?"

"No," she said. "Sherlock barely knows what he feels himself. But I know."

He finally cracked a bit of a smile. "Well. Good. That's good, then."

His mood seemed lighter, Molly noticed. He checked his watch. "I've got to get going." He stood up and dug some bills out of his pocket and set them on the table. Molly slid out of the booth, too. They started to walk towards the exit, but before they reached the door he gently laid his hand on her arm, stopping her.

"Molly," he said, catching her eyes with his. She could feel the warmth where his hand was resting. "I was wrong," he said. "Wrong to cancel on you like that. I'm not so busy anymore. I've got everything...sorted."

That feeling again. Layers upon layers. His dark eyes were intense again as he looked at her, his hand warm on her arm. "I'm glad you came to see me, Molls," he said.

She crumbled a little at the use of the nickname that only he used. "I missed you, is all," she blurted out with fervor, her cheeks turning pink, embarrassed by the force of her own admission. She hadn't really even known she'd missed him so much, until just that moment.

His expression was inscrutable, but after a moment, he smiled and said, "I missed you too, Molls." He gently removed his hand from her arm. He held the door open for her again, followed behind her into the street where they paused for a moment.

Outside, in the bright light of the afternoon sun, back in the world of other people and cars and noise, the weight of their conversation lifted a little. A glint came into his eyes, and he leaned closer to her for a moment and said, "If you play your cards right, I just might tell you about that tattoo someday. I know you want to know more about it. Maybe I'll even let you see it again. But until then, it's good to maintain a little mystery, just to keep things interesting, right?" He took his sunglasses out and slid them up the bridge of his nose with a finger.

At the mention of the tattoo, she was suddenly thinking about him taking off his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly in front of her. About his muscled shoulders with that glorious tattoo settled in between, the design rippling as he raised his arm to slide into the shirt sleeve.

She shook her head, coming back to the present. "Oh, right," she agreed too quickly, rather stupidly.

"I'll see you later, then," he said, and he seemed to imperceptibly learn forward a fraction more, and for just a split she thought he was going to kiss her on the cheek, like it was the most natural thing in the world, as he said goodbye. But he didn't. "Call me, yeah?" he said, and with a little wave, darted off across the street back to the Yard.

Molly stared after him, watching him leave until he disappeared into the building. Something seemed….different. Greg Lestrade seemed different. He seemed almost a little…flirty. She knew he could be; in the right mood and drunk enough, he could chat up a lamp post. But not with her, though, they always kept things at a different level. Professional, friendly.

Until now, maybe. If he was being flirty…she found she kind of liked it.

She started walking towards the underground station to take her to Bart's, where she had the night shift. She absently worried the engagement ring on her finger, lost in thought. And it wasn't Tom that filled her thoughts.

Maybe Greg Lestrade was getting too interesting for her own good.


	18. Almost Forgiven

Several weeks later, Lestrade was standing on the corner, debating whether or not to light the cigarette he held in his hand. He knew he should quit, he really should. He had actually tried to quit, again, and had gone several days without one. On the way out of the office, he veered into a shop as if under someone else's control and bought a pack. What the hell. He tapped one out of the packet, lit it and brought it up to take a very deep and extremely satisfying drag. Slowly blew it out. His head instantly filled with the exquisite rush of dopamine.

Just as he was bringing it up again, he felt fingers brush against his, and the cigarette was plucked from his grasp and thrown to the ground. "Fuck," he said under his breath, missing that next drag like a vital organ. Busted. He leaned his head back, looked up at the bright late afternoon sky. "Just kill me now," he moaned. "I really needed that to start this bloody night shift."

"You should quit," said Molly Hooper. "I'm telling you this as a pathologist. I've seen the inside of a smoker's lungs, it's not pretty."

Lestrade sighed and glanced down at her. She looked innocent enough, but was clearly filled with the instincts of a bloodhound to track him down at the first moment of relapse. "I did quit, actually. Until this bloody minute. I can't believe you saw that."

Molly stood with her hands in the pockets of a long multicolored sweater, a thick scarf around her neck. "I was just coming from the Yard," she said. "Got called in for some more questions about that murder case. I've been asked to give an expert opinion at a trial sometime later this year."

"Gregson again?" he asked. He didn't know much about the case, he hadn't worked it.

"Yes."

"That wanker," he said crossly. After a pint or two he was known to rant about Gregson a bit. They had a bit of what one might call a "healthy competition."

"I just happened to see you out here. And in the nick of time, I guess." She laughed a little nervously.

He hadn't seen her since the coffee shop. She'd never called or texted. Which disappointed him. He'd felt that…well, he thought that maybe something between them was….changing. For a moment, he thought maybe she'd thought that, too. Oh, hell. First he'd avoided her for weeks before the coffee shop, smarting a bit from the incident in 221B and the conversations with Sherlock, and now the shoe was on the other foot and it seemed like she was avoiding him. Either way, lately they seemed doomed to work at cross purposes. But what difference did it make. She still wore that ring on her finger.

Today, though, things seemed normal enough. He was overthinking it. Probably she'd just been busy, and he too ridiculously eager to see her. He put his hands in his pockets. He felt his silver lighter, rolled it contemplatively around in his fingers a few times. The lighter was a bit of a talisman for him now, he felt lucky when he had it. Completely irrational, he knew, but he believed it anyway.

She looked down, played with the ends of the scarf, like she always did when she was nervous.

"So, you're going to John's wedding, then? Coming up soon. Just a week away."

"Yeah, I'm going. You?"

"Yes."

He paused. "With Tom, yeah?"

She nodded, then asked a little hesitantly, shyly. "Are you bringing anyone?"

He shook his head. Fuck, he wanted another cigarette right now. This was hard. Why didn't he just say something to her? Like what? _Don't marry Tom. Just throw away all your future plans with your much younger, richer boyfriend and take a chance on me._ Fuck fuck fuck.

He took a deep breath. "Well, I gotta get going. I was just on my way to a …thing." Jesus. Pull it together, Lestrade. "I've got to go interview someone," he said more confidently.

"Oh, ok." Her smile faltered a little. "I'll see you at the wedding."

He nodded, and walked down the street towards his car. After he was settled behind the wheel, he only then realized he hadn't even said a proper goodbye, just nodded and left. Smooth, Lestrade. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips, a headache setting in. Something had to give.

He was just about to turn on the engine when a black-gloved fist pounded on the passenger side window and a hand gestured for him to unlock the door.

"Christ!" Lestrade yelled, as he disengaged the automatic door lock and a tall, dark-haired figure slid into the seat. "Don't do that! I've told you before, Sherlock! That always scares the shit out of me." Lestrade pointed at him. "You're lucky I'm not armed."

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized insincerely, clearly in an upbeat mood.

"Are you going to interview that guard about the murder? I'm coming along," Sherlock demanded.

"Yes," Lestrade said, irritated. "How'd you even know about that?"

Murders always brought out the best in him, Lestrade thought wryly. He hadn't seen Sherlock since they spoke in that pub weeks ago.

"Oh I have my sources." Sherlock tsk-sked. "Touchy today, aren't we?" Sherlock looked down the street in the rearview mirror, to where Molly could still be seen in the distance. "And I think we know the reason why."

Lestrade said nothing, just started the car.

"T minus two weeks," Sherlock said, a bit enigmatically.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lestrade pulled the car out into the traffic.

"T for Tom. I give it two weeks."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just, shut up."

Ignoring him, Sherlock opened the glove compartment, rifled around in it. "Got any smokes in here? You must. You smell like smoke." Sherlock was momentarily intrigued and pulled out a pair of handcuffs from the compartment, which Lestrade immediately grabbed away and put in his own pocket.

"Yeah, I've got some." He fished in his pocket again and tossed the pack to Sherlock. "No smoking in the car, though."

Sherlock slammed the compartment door shut. "Fine."

Lestrade put on his sunglasses to block the afternoon sun, but could feel a smile breaking across his face anyway, despite his best efforts to remain irritable with Sherlock. He had almost forgiven him. Almost.

From the corner of his eye, he could see a bit of smile on Sherlock's face, too, that vanished just as fast as it had come on. At least some things were returning to normal. It was good to be bickering with Sherlock again.


	19. If Things Were Different

The smell of smoke was in the air, and she followed it around the corner. Maybe Sherlock had stopped to have a cigarette before he left the wedding. She had seen him leave quickly after the waltz, but had been unable to get away to follow him out.

Greg Lestrade was alone, leaning against a stone wall ringing a small patio, smoking a cigarette. His tie was loosened around his neck, hanging down a few inches, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. A full beer glass was balanced precariously on the railing next to him.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" she asked.

"He just got into a cab and left."

"Oh." Molly sighed. "Did he look ok?"

Greg shrugged. "Couldn't tell. It's too dark."

The night air felt good against her skin. She had been dancing and the room had become hot and stuffy with so many people in the small space, and the music had been loud. Some of the company a little oppressive. It was nice to escape outside for a while. She came over to stand next to Greg, her back to the railing as well. Still smoking, she noted. But tonight she didn't feel like busting him for it.

She looked up at him. "Having a good time?" She hadn't seen him on the dance floor, not after John and Mary's waltz had ended.

"Yeah," he said, "Pretty exciting. Can't remember ever making an arrest for attempted murder before at a wedding. You?" he asked, in return.

"Weddings are always nice," she said a little absently, tilting her head, deep in thought. "Although, after that Best Man's speech, I'm not entirely sure who just married who… I don't think Sherlock's ok."

Greg crossed his arms in front of him, nodded. "Yeah, probably not ok." He took the last drag of his cigarette, threw it down and ground it out under his heel, then settled back against the railing again with arms crossed again. "Bloody awful timing. Guess it's not easy, coming back from the dead. Things change. People move on."

A few more moments of silence passed. He looked up and made a careful study of the strings of lights draped across the tree branches overhead, which lent a soft glow to everything around them. "You'll be getting married soon. Probably the next wedding I'll go to."

Molly felt herself frown. The thought didn't make her happy, not like it should have. In fact, it made her feel a little panicked. She'd been putting off picking a wedding date for weeks. The whole relationship was starting to take on a slightly desperate feel, like they were trying too hard to hold things together. All the forced gaiety of the evening was wearing on her; in fact, it was fucking exhausting. Feeling a need for a drink, she suddenly reached across Greg, her bare arm brushing against his suit where his arms were crossed, and grabbed the full beer glass balanced on the railing.

Greg just raised his eyebrows as he watched her empty most of it in one drink.

"Impressive," he said. He looked speculative, but she was thankful he didn't ask anything more.

"Sorry," she said apologetically, "I just drank your beer."

Greg laughed. "That's ok. I've had my fair share, and then some."

"Bit drunk, then?" Molly teased lightly, his laugh lifting her mood a little. He could always make her smile.

He leaned down closer to her. "Maybe a little," he admitted, whispering conspiratorially.

Molly laughed as well. "Me, too," she whispered back. She finished the rest of the beer in one gulp and set the empty glass down on the railing with a resounding whack of glass on stone. Tom was probably wondering where she was, but she didn't feel like going back in yet.

Greg was still leaning down towards her, and after a few moments, he spoke again, close to her ear. "Well, since we've both had a few drinks, maybe you won't blame me too much if I said you look beautiful. I wanted to tell you that all night. You look really beautiful."

Molly looked up at him, startled. His silvery hair was gleaming under the lights, and his eyes, so dark brown they were almost black, looked down at her, unreadable.

"Thank you," she answered, a little uncertainly. "You, too. I mean, you look nice, too." He really was very attractive, she found herself thinking. Attractive and interesting. She had tried not to dwell on those facts. She was supposed to be planning her own wedding, for crying out loud, not thinking so much about Greg Lestrade. She had perceived some subtext to their conversation at the coffee shop, and she was unsure of what to think. Or how she felt about it. She had avoided him, until now.

Neither said anything for a few moments. The music was still playing loudly, filling the silence, but outside it was muted a little. The frantic music began to fade, and a slow dance song came on next.

"Molls," he said suddenly. "Have a dance with me."

Molly was momentarily paralyzed. What a thought, dancing with Greg Lestrade. In all the years she had known him, she couldn't remember ever having been that physically close to him, socially anyway, as slow dancing would require. He was her self-defense instructor, which did involve some touching, but it had all been very professional. But she was hyper-aware of him now, since the coffee shop. And not in an entirely friendly way. The thought of dancing with him was, if she was honest, both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. And what would Tom think? Then again, who cared what Tom thought. He had been on her every last nerve lately. It was a wedding. People danced with other people at weddings. Nothing wrong with that.

She blinked, realizing she had mentally deliberated for quite some time while he waited for a response. Jesus, it was just a dance. But it felt like a bigger deal than that for some reason, as if deciding something that had been a long time coming.

She smiled shyly, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "Ok, yeah. I'd like that."

Without hesitation he reached out and slid one arm around her waist, and took one of her hands in his own. She reached up and tentatively laid her other hand on his shoulder, her fingertips lightly exploring the new and unknown environment before settling in. It was a little strange, at first, but he proved to be very competent. The space between them, which at first would have passed inspection by a Victorian-era chaperone, began to diminish little by little.

They moved around the patio, Greg leading confidently and unselfconsciously, which made it all seem fine. He was probably the most unselfconscious person she knew, completely comfortable in his own skin, which had always fascinated her. She couldn't give a lecture or walk down the street, or dance for that matter, without feeling like the whole world was looking at her.

"You're a good dancer," Molly finally said, breaking the silence. "Thank god, because I'm not."

Molly felt herself relaxing, closed her eyes, becoming more confident that she would not stumble. They seemed to follow each other well; no one had lost any toes yet. She was pleasantly buzzed. The song they were dancing to ended after a few minutes, but another slow one started and they just kept on without stopping. The quiet and darkness outside was very soothing, but it was getting cooler. She shivered.

"Cold?" he asked, and she nodded. She felt him hesitate for a moment and guessed that he wanted to hold her closer but wasn't sure if he should. She answered the unspoken question by completely closing the distance between them. It was nice to just let go of everything for a while, to not think of anything beyond this moment; to enjoy the silence, the movement, the company. Her cheek rested against his lapels which smelled of smoke and cologne. One hand moved from her waist to her back to hold her more tightly to him. His other hand held hers against his chest, pinned between them. Her head just fit in the space just under his chin, which he rested lightly on her hair. She could feel the steady beat of his heart.

She felt warm. And comfortable. She hadn't expected to feel so comfortable in the arms of Greg Lestrade, hadn't really expected to find herself here. As if right at that moment, she was where she belonged. It should have felt more awkward; this was feeling very personal, with the sound and feel of his heart so close to her ear, the heat of his body against the length of hers, the cool grey-blue fabric of his suit jacket against her skin, but it didn't.

They danced through the next song, and then another, as the block of slow dances continued. Molly felt light, like she was in a very pleasant dream, her eyes still shut, until a vague realization that something was different finally roused her. They had stopped moving. The music had stopped playing. She opened her eyes to find Greg looking down at her, studying her face, his hands on her shoulders. For a moment, one breathless moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Like she thought he might a few weeks ago in front of the coffee shop. When, again, he didn't, she was surprised by the depth of her own disappointment.

He started to say something. "I wish-"

"Molly! There you are!"

Christ. It was Tom, coming around the corner. Molly instantly stiffened in response. She was wary of the tone of his voice, which sounded different, and felt a little guilty to be caught with Greg Lestrade on a dark and private patio.

"I wish things were different," he finished quietly. Greg looked at Tom over the top of her head, meeting the other man's glare full on, his expression darkening. With Tom's eyes still locked on him, his hands slid slowly down her bare arms before he took a step back, finally letting her go.

Tom advanced, looking from her to Lestrade and back again. "So this is where you've been," he said accusingly, his words a little slurred. "You've been gone a long time." He looked back at Lestrade again. "And with you. I might have guessed."

"I'm just dancing with a friend." Molly said, defensively. If she was tipsy, Tom seemed outright drunk. It was more than a little disturbing. He didn't seem like a happy drunk at all.

Greg reached into his pocket, leisurely took out a cigarette and lit it with his silver lighter. "It's just a dance, mate," he said casually, taking a drag and blowing it out slowly, but his eyes were dangerously alert.

"You seem unusually close to your _friends, Molly," Tom said sarcastically. "Thirty minutes is a pretty long dance." He took a step closer to Lestrade and pointed at him aggressively. "I've seen how you look at her. Tonight and every other time I've seen you. You're always around her like a fucking bodyguard. Don't think I don't know what's on your mind."_

Greg held up a hand in warning. "Just take it easy."

"Actually, why don't you just fuck off?" Tom stumbled forward and to Molly's surprise, took a swing at Greg Lestrade. She watched Greg transform immediately from wedding guest to cop in under two seconds. With cigarette dangling from his lip, Greg stepped aside and easily caught Tom's arm as it passed him by, then bent it behind Tom's back as he shoved him against the stone railing.

"Lesson number one," Greg said. "Never pick a fight with a cop." He gave him another shove into the railing for emphasis before letting him go, then repeated sternly, "Now take it easy."

Tom pulled his arm forward. "Prick," he muttered, but suddenly, unwisely, struck out once more. Lestrade easily grabbed his arm again and this time took him face-first to the ground, holding him down with a knee on his back. Tom laid there a few seconds, then groaned, held a hand up to signal his surrender.

Greg let go of Tom and straightened up. He took the cigarette that had still been dangling from his lips and pointed at Tom with it as he spoke. "Lesson number two, don't pick a fight when you're drunk." He took the last drag, threw it to the side. "Damn _amateurs."_

The way he had just handled Tom so easily was about the sexiest thing she had ever seen. Molly shook her head to clear it. Probably she should be thinking about Tom right now, instead of Greg. "Ok, that's enough. Both of you. Time to go home, Tom." She leaned down to help him up. "I'll get you a cab." She wasn't going with him, that was for sure. She'd figure out her own plans later.

Tom brushed off his trousers and glared at Lestrade but his remark was meant for Molly. "All your friends are a bunch of psychos."

"You can go get your cab with her or leave in a police car with me. Your choice," Greg said darkly. Tom shot him another dark look, but allowed himself to be led away by Molly.

Later, in the driveway in front of the dance hall, Molly watched the cab drive away with a sullen Tom inside, her thoughts in disarray. She heard gravel crunch behind her. She knew who it was already.

"Everything ok?" Greg asked.

"I sincerely doubt that," she answered glumly, not turning around.

"Didn't cause you any more problems, did he?" he asked again.

Molly shook her head, frowning. "I've never seen him like that before." She breathed out slowly, releasing the pent up stress. That could have been much worse. Greg Lestrade could have done some damage to Tom, but he didn't. Just calmly put him down twice and didn't even leave a scratch. She could almost see some dark humor in the situation. "I wasn't too worried. I think I could take him. You taught me yourself, obviously I learned from the best."

He laughed quietly, a hint of pride in his voice. "That's my girl," he said.

She turned around. What an interesting expression he used. That was exactly the root of the fiasco; she wasn't his girl. Got caught acting like she was, though. But maybe...she might like to be. She didn't know where the thought came from, but it rang true. She studied him standing there, hands in his pockets, so unassuming but so lethal. So consistently, comfortably present in her life. So quietly, ruggedly handsome.

"I probably deserved that punch," he said. "Both of them. In his place, I might have done the same." He looked down. "I would have been jealous, too."

Molly sighed again. Nothing had happened, really. "No, we didn't do anything wrong. He was just drunk. And mad about a lot of other things."

She thought for a moment, and suddenly felt guilt come over her. The words gushed out. "Everything's all messed up. It has been for a while. I wasn't very nice to him tonight and then I stabbed him with that fork during Sherlock's speech. Plastic, but still, not cool. I mean, who does that? I won't set a wedding date. We bickered all day. I left him alone for a long time with people he doesn't know. We faked looking happy in wedding pictures today. I danced too close to you and liked it too much. " She looked down at her hands, which she held clasped together in front of her. "I am a really bad fiancée."

_And I don't love Tom anymore, if I ever did, she mentally added to her list of failures. She was shocked the thought came so easily. She could not have admitted it to herself before now._

He was silent for a moment, internally debating something, the conflict etched on his features. "And I'm a really bad liar," he said suddenly, intensely. "I can't pretend anymore. Tom was right. I do look at you. I wanted to kiss you. Tonight, and plenty of times before tonight. Even right there in front of your sodding boyfriend I wanted to. I wanted him to see me do it and then I wanted him to disappear. And he knows it. That's really why he tried to punch me. It's not your fault."

Molly glanced up from her hands and stood transfixed, watching him speak. It was doing things to her, the way he was talking so frankly and intensely and the image of him kissing her -while Tom watched - filled her with extremely erotic thoughts. She had stood in his arms just minutes ago, thinking he might do it, wanting him to. It was heady, this feeling, knowing that he wanted her. There were no layers of subtext to work through now, it was all in the open.

He sighed, ran a hand over the top of his head. "And now you know it, too." He took a deep breath. "Dammit, I still want to kiss you, right now." He turned to her, then with some effort turned away again, his foot pivoting in the gravel with a crunching sound. For the first time all evening, he looked rattled and seemed to make a quick decision. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. You seem unhappy. I should just go." He started to raise a hand to hail one of the cabs waiting further down the driveway.

Her toes curled in her shoes, her heart quickened. What would it would be like, if he actually did that, kissed her right now. He was a decent man, just trying like hell to respect the normal social rules of her engagement. Which was exactly why he wouldn't actually do it, despite wanting to and saying so.

But exactly why she would. She wanted him, too. Screw the rules. These were her rules to break.

She knew it was reckless, anybody might see them. She didn't care. Molly took a sudden step forward and grabbed his loose tie, bringing his head almost down to her level, so close. He was momentarily startled, but only for a moment. The hand that was up in the air came down to the back of her head, roughly pulling her closely to him, his lips claiming hers hungrily and she responded in kind. She only cared about the feel of his lips on hers, the rough feel of his cheek grazing her skin, the feel of his hands on her body again, now not holding her gently in a dance but exploring her curves with deliberate, passionate intent. All their pent up desires finally unleashed; his that had been so close to the surface, hers more deeply buried but now uncovered, at last meeting equally.

Only coming back to their senses when a cab pulled up and a group of people got out, loud and self-absorbed. They paid no attention to the couple who had just pulled apart in the darkness, each taking a moment to slow their breathing and compose themselves.

"Shit," he said, unceremoniously but sincerely, his voice unsteady, the first to speak. "That was..."

"Really, really good," she finished for him. _Devastatingly good. Possibly life-changing good. _

"Yeah. That." He looked down, took hold of her left hand. He lightly touched the engagement ring before he released her hand again. "Bloody awful timing, though," he said quietly. They both knew that was true. The question of Tom lingered in the air. "You'll want some time to think," he guessed. "It's ok."

She nodded. She didn't know what more to say. Nothing that had happened this night was expected. She would need some time to make sense of it. She didn't know what he was thinking, his current expression was unreadable, but he seemed to understand. Things had gotten serious, fast. She could use some lightening up, some distraction to recover her balance. She said the first thing that came to her mind.

"So... I might need to know this someday. Is there a lesson number three?.."

Greg's mouth twitched, fighting a smile but failing. "Yeah. Don't pick a fight with a drunk cop."

_Or provoke a drunk cop into snogging you into mindlessness. Too late. She snorted. "That's pretty important. That should be lesson number one." She looked towards the hall, where the music was playing and the party was still in full swing. Inevitably there would be questions to answer, dilemmas to solve. But nothing was going to reach resolution that night. She could feel the cool night breeze again. "Let's go back in, it's getting cold. And I owe you a beer." _

He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "Sounds good."

She knew things would change after this. How, or how much, would be the question. They were finding their way back to a friendly equilibrium, at least for the moment, and that was all she could ask, for now.


	20. Not Leaving Bart

_June_

Two weeks after the wedding, Molly Hooper sat at her desk in the late afternoon, holding a letter in her hand. An interesting proposition lay before her, one that she would have to consider carefully.

She thought back over everything that had happened. For the month prior to the wedding, she had really tried to focus her attentions on Tom. For a long time there had been a slow deluge of slights and oversights that had nearly overwhelmed them like a thick mudslide. But she loved him and had committed to him, she had reminded herself constantly. She had tried to put all thoughts of men with silver hair from her mind. She would package up the doubt and confusion and unallowable attractions and all those things that were just WRONG and put that package away in a very dark, unreachable place.

And that had been working, sort of, at least until the wedding, where she had made some dramatic discoveries about her feelings which still had her reeling. She didn't love Tom anymore. Quite possibly she was interested in Greg Lestrade, instead. It was difficult to sort it all out. Everything that had happened at the wedding had been intense and dramatic and she didn't know what feelings to trust. A few days after the wedding she had looked at the photos. In every photo with her and Greg, there it was; she was always leaning towards him, curving into his negative space. And all that even before they danced. Or kissed. Before she had admitted anything to herself, at least consciously.

And inevitably, with Tom, everything had gone wrong. At one point just days after the wedding, she mentally catalogued her list of grievances against him, trying to determine why she had fallen out of love with him. It was a pretty short list, actually. He was basically a nice guy. A snappy dresser. Especially nice hair. A little boring, maybe. He was a banker. He liked to talk about stocks and bonds and mortgages and insurance and all sorts of other things that were entirely mature and socially acceptable, and probably of interest to many other people. He was more than financially stable, well off, even. He had a house. He had a dog. There was every reason to love him. Everything she had always thought she wanted.

Perhaps the biggest grievance was simply that he did not understand her world. There was no joy for him in an autopsy done well. No delight in discovering traces of arsenic in a strand of hair. Did not relish discussing the size and shape of gunshot exit wounds in the determination of bullet caliber. In general, he didn't have much interest in hearing about the details of her work at all; in fact, he seemed downright squeamish about it. She wondered sometimes what he thought he loved about her. She was rather his opposite; not a great dresser, perpetually messy hair pulled back in a ponytail, her interests more artistic and fanciful and less pragmatic than his. Upon reflection, it was also interesting to note, they had almost never told each other they loved each other. They had just moved forward like it was assumed. Tom was not a particularly demonstrative man. And Molly had recently discovered she preferred passionately demonstrative men who knew their way around a gunshot wound.

The weekend after the wedding, Tom came down to London. He was contrite and seemed determined to make up. To her, though, it was like she was having an out of body experience. She could see him talking to her, could hear him, but she just wasn't _there_. Her thoughts were wandering to different places. In one long conversation, in which he did all the talking and she said nothing, he was trying to convince her to give up her job at Bart's after they got married. He assumed she would be moving into his house outside of London, and of course she would have to look for work at the local hospital, maybe not on par with her job now but surely it would be less demanding….. and at that point, she simply let go. There was no argument left in her.

"I'm not leaving Bart's," she said. That was suddenly crystal clear to her. She realized she had never allowed herself to think about what would happen after they got married. It had been folly, and frankly a little irresponsible on her part, to go this far and not talk about it. It was like she had been living in slow motion for a long time and she had been unable to get out of the quicksand. Unable to admit this was not what she wanted anymore. That she didn't love him anymore.

She took off her ring, and held it out to him. "I'm sorry, Tom," she said sadly. "This isn't fair to you, I know. I'm sorry."

He was astonished. "Why?" he asked, visibly upset.

"I just don't think we want the same things," she tried to explain.

She could see him thinking, frowning. Suddenly angry, he asked, "Is this about that police officer?"

"Detective Inspector," she automatically corrected, quietly, a little stricken.

"Whatever. Well is it?"

"No," she said, in tears. Then, "Yes. Maybe. I don't know. It's all of it."

He still did not take the ring. "You changed," he said, accusingly. "You're not the same person you were when we met. You changed when Sherlock Holmes came back, when you started hanging out with him and John Watson and that Inspector again. They changed you."

She was surprised by his keen observation. She hadn't even seen it herself until he pointed it out just then. It was true. In the social circles she shared with Tom, she'd had to suppress her true self, just trying to fit in.

'I'm sorry, Tom. It's the other way around. I didn't change because I was with them. I changed because I was without them. I've just gone back to who I really am."

In tears, she held the ring out farther. "Please, take it."

He did not seem to want it back, but she continued to hold her hand out. After some moments of indecision he reached out to take it, then grabbed his coat, then left her flat with a slam of the door. He did not come back.

They had only lasted for one week after the wedding. And now she was in a very bad, very dark, very confused place. She knew it was better to have ended the engagement. But still, it was very, very hard. She didn't hate Tom. She was still fond of him. She had never meant to hurt him. They had just…grown apart. And while they were growing apart, she had been growing closer to someone else. DI Greg Lestrade.

She could still hardly believe what she had done at the wedding. His subtle flirting, his dancing, his incredibly sexy crisis management skills-it had all turned her on. She had grabbed his tie and reeled him in. She had so, so wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him. She had been so overcome with the realization of what she had been feeling all those years for him, she just did it. Maybe her last chance to know. He had handled the whole thing like such a gentleman. And it had changed everything.

The thought of Greg Lestrade now filled her with longing, but also with a sort of fearful dread. The dread you feel at the top of a rollercoaster, when you know it's going to be thrilling and exhilarating and satisfying and you'll arrive safely at the end, but first you have to take a leap; that initial terrifying plunge downwards on nothing more than faith and hope you don't fly off and crash. And once you start, there's no getting out. She wasn't sure she was ready to start.

The letter in front of her now was not coming at an ideal time. Or maybe it was. The letter was an offer from colleagues she knew for her to spend four months at a hospital in Edinburgh. Her counterpart there needed to be in London for that amount of time. Would she be willing to go there for four months? Starting in July. So she wouldn't really be leaving Bart's, just taking a temporary leave of absence, then coming right back.

Maybe, she thought. She would consider it. It might be the respite she needed to clear her mind.

She sighed. She was ready to tell him. About the breakup, maybe not yet about the possible job offer, she hadn't made any decisions about that yet. She texted Greg Lestrade.


	21. Not Sorry

Lestrade was in his office, working on some paperwork when his phone that was lying on the desk chimed with an incoming text. He glanced at it, then immediately grabbed it up when he saw the message.

_Tom and I broke up last week_

"Holy shit," he said out loud to no one, leaning back in his chair, astonished. That bastard, he then thought, Sherlock was right. Just about two weeks on the dot. He had not heard from Molly since the wedding. Now he knew why, things had not been going well for her.

How to answer. Conflicting thoughts and emotions battled for supremacy, ranging from sympathy to glee. He didn't have any information to go on, only knew they broke up. He settled on something conventional.

_I'm sorry, Molls_

Her answer came back shortly.

_No you're not_

_Nobody liked Tom_

_Especially you_

He let out a snort of laughter. Well, that was true enough. He hated that guy. That had come out loud and clear at the wedding. He texted back, now more serious. Probably this was hard for her.

_Are you ok?_

A minute passed before her answer came back.

_I'll be ok_

He thought about what to say next. What was the proper amount of time to respect the mourning of a dissolved relationship? Probably shouldn't dive in headfirst yet, although there were a lot of things he wanted to say to Molly Hooper.

_Do you need anything?_

The response came back a few minutes later.

_Time to sort things out_

Shit. Not the answer he was looking for. A better answer might have been back massages, regular supply of take-out coffee to the morgue, bad jokes. He would have been much better at providing that sort of thing. Time. Well, ok, so be it. He texted back.

_I'm here, if you need anything_

He thought back to the wedding, and the series of events that had unfolded there. He hadn't really planned to confess so much. It just...happened. He had wanted to tell her, at least just once, that she was beautiful. He had wanted to dance with her, at least just once. Just once before she was married. He did not expect to be so overcome by holding Molly Hooper in his arms so close to him that night, her fitting so perfectly. It had gone to his head. It confirmed everything he ever thought. She was perfect for him, and he was perfect for her. It's hard to know what he might have said to her, if Tom had not intervened. On the other hand, would he have said anything at all, if Tom had not provoked him. All water under the bridge now.

He wondered exactly why they broke up. Probably a lot of things. He hoped he wasn't too much a part of that, he would not like to think that the scuffle and what happened after it at the wedding ruined an engagement that she might have wanted. He was no homewrecker. He was a little sensitive to that issue, having been on the other side of it in his own marriage. On the other hand, at least she knew what he felt. Maybe he should look at this as her having the information she needed to make an informed choice about her future.

Oh, who was he kidding. He was glad Tom was gone and he didn't care how or why. His altruism only went so far.

He texted Sherlock.

_Molly and Tom broke up_

_Exactly when you said_

The response came back immediately.

_Naturally_

_Not hard to predict_

_Statistics show struggling relationships often end _

_soon after attending weddings_

_Too much pressure_

And then after that;

_Good luck_


	22. Trying Hard

_Last week of June_

The events of mid-June took everyone by surprise. In the course of one day, Lestrade had learned that Sherlock Holmes was back on drugs, Molly had slapped the shit out of him, and then Sherlock was shot. Almost fatally. And in between all that, Sherlock had faked an engagement to the maid of honor in order to break into Magnusson's office. And he was in deep with some kind of trouble. That shot had been a kill shot, assassin-style. Sherlock probably should have died. He was out of control, again. But he would be out of commission for a while, that much was sure. Maybe the down time would reel him back into some sense of normalcy. Ha, not bloody lucky, he thought.

The aftermath of the shooting was quite a lot of work. The paperwork was outrageous. Mycroft Holmes was back at the Yard, asserting influence where he could, Lestrade his main conduit to pull the strings. He had barely any time to think of much else at all, sometimes sleeping at the office. It was the price to be paid for keeping Sherlock Holmes alive and out of jail. He wondered how long they could keep doing it. Greg Lestrade could guess the reasons for Sherlock's sudden erratic behavior. Only John Watson had had any real success in keeping Sherlock together, and now that steady influence was gone.

One week after the shooting, Lestrade received a text from Molly. He was lying on the couch in the late afternoon in his office, shirt rumpled, sporting a five-o'clock shadow. Home had been nothing but an illusion lately.

_Are you busy?_

_I need to see you_

_when you have time_

He instantly perked up a little. He probably had some time tonight, things were on hold until the office was in full swing tomorrow. Or he would make time. There wasn't much he wouldn't callously toss aside, even if he had been busy, to make plans to see her.

_Tonight?_

She answered;

_Ok_

_Where and when?_

He thought about the when and where. He could use an excuse to get out of the office, get moving. The gym was not far away. The added bonus of getting close to Molly Hooper could also not be underestimated, even under the guise of a self-defense lesson. He wondered when the Tom moratorium would be over.

_How about gym_

_7:00_

She texted back;

_See you there_

Several hours later, they were standing on a mat in the gym. There was nobody else around. The gym was quiet and every squeak of shoes on the mat echoed in the empty room. Silent, they just stood across from each other, drinking in the sight of the other person that they hadn't seen in weeks, not since the wedding. The memory of the wedding was heavy in his mind. How she had kissed him.

As he looked at her, hesitating before he started the routine, he was suddenly uncharacteristically nervous. He realized how different this felt. This seemed like a normal enough thing to do, they had done it dozens of times before. And it was almost merciful to be active, instead of sitting around with nothing to do but converse about difficult subjects.

Well, it was all out there now. Words had passed between them, which could not be taken back. Feelings had surfaced that could not be submerged. He had a heightened awareness of her physicality that could be not ignored again. To him, anyway, it felt like they were hovering somewhere between friends and would-be lovers, the question in the air but as yet unanswered. He didn't know what she was thinking, but surely, she must feel it, too. He suddenly had no idea how to approach this. Shit.

"I don't think this was a good idea," he finally said.

"I do." Molly said. "I want to know. I want to know if we can do this. Can we still do the things we always did together, these types of normal things. Are we still friends."

He frowned. "We're still friends." In his mind, they had always been friends. Friends maybe heading somewhere else...

She nodded to herself. "Ok, I'm ready. Let's start."

Quit thinking too much, Lestrade then thought to himself. Concentrate. Just do. Concentrate. Just like usual. Run through the moves. Wrist hold. He grabbed her wrist, but she effectively got out of it. That went smoothly. They both were quiet, focusing on the work. Next, front and back choke holds. Little trickier. She was able to get free again. They were both very practiced at this particular routine, which they tended to repeat over and over. These skills had saved his life before, and hopefully she would never need to test that, but they practiced to stay sharp.

He was getting into it now, loosening up, forgetting his unease and falling into the rhythm of the drill. He was remembering the feel of her arm, knew the strength of her muscles, knew her predilection for moving one way or another. He matched her move for move. It was to the point they had done this so many times he could predict what she would do. What was the use of that, if they kept doing the same things over and over and nothing different ever happened and it was just...safe. Too frustratingly safe.

He was tired of just going through the motions.

He was bigger and stronger than she was. He moved quickly and used his weight to take them down to the mat. Strength and size shouldn't always win, if you knew what to do. She was surprised because usually they followed a routine and this was not part of it, so he managed to get her down without too much opposition. He held her down in a difficult position to get out of if the bigger opponent was on top. He was straddling her, leaning over, one elbow across her upper chest. His face was close to hers, they were both breathing hard.

She responded immediately to his change in routine, and maybe also in attitude. She went right for a vulnerable pressure point at his elbow, which buckled and she managed to roll and get out from underneath him, he still on his knees. She was immediately on his back, in almost a piggy-back position, sliding up far enough to get her arm locked around his neck in a v-shaped hold. He was just about to counter when suddenly the hold loosened on his neck, felt her push his shirt up, felt her hands slide to his back. Onto his bare skin. He froze, recognizing the feeling of fingertips, almost like a caress, tracing deliberately across the expanse of his upper back. He felt himself shudder at the touch; unexpected and incredibly erotic.

He realized the reason for her attention. She wanted to see the tattoo, to touch it, like the artist she was. With her otherwise occupied, he knew he had the advantage, and he could not resist taking the upper hand. He would not let her have too much satisfaction. He was not above extortion; if a good look at the tat was what it took to make her run her hands over him, he would dole that out. Bit by bit, little by little, more and more, time and time again, if he had his way.

He pivoted under her, flipped them both and held her down. This time he was lying flat across her, pinning her down with the full weight of his body. "Found a distraction, did you?" he asked, teasing her. "If you get distracted you'll always lose the advantage."

He was looking down at her again, her eyes wide and she looked surprised, but she also looked…..a little bit aroused. Shit. Now _he_ was officially distracted. Christ, what a mistake. What a mistake to be lying on top of Molly Hooper, if he had any intention at all of being remotely well behaved. Since the wedding, a fuse had been lit in him and it was smoldering, threatening to explode. She had just been touching him, running her hands across his back, and she was looking at him like that… His heart was hammering, his groin was stirring. This was not going well at all.

He let go and rolled off, lying on his back, an arm crooked at the elbow over his eyes. A few seconds passed. He was just about to get up and call it quits when he felt her weight on top of him, legs on either side of his hips, pressing in. "Come on," she said, more aggressive than playful. "Fight me." She slid her hands up his chest towards his neck. Electricity shot through him, reacting to her touch, urging him to act. Instinctively he reached out and disabled her grip, flipping them over so that he was on top yet again. He could feel her breasts pushing into his chest, her hip bones settling between his. This was the third time he'd put her in this position, finding he liked it quite a lot. This was getting dangerous.

"Now what?" he challenged, breathing heavily from exertion and a building tension, searching her face again. Her face was flushed, eyes bright, but she looked determined. She lifted her hips off the ground and attempted to pivot and roll out, but he had his foot wedged between hers to block her roll. Their bodies were wet with perspiration from the effort, their shirts riding up a few inches, enough so that he felt her hot slick skin slide past his own where they touched. Her hips ground into his and he felt an exquisite pleasure shoot through him at the contact. He groaned a little, slipped an arm under her back where she was arched off the ground, and holding her to him he rolled onto his back, Molly now lying on top of him. He loosened his hold on her, but did not remove his arm, leaving it draped over her. He shut his eyes, willing himself to retain control.

Her hands were splayed flat on his chest to balance herself. "You're letting me win," she said, with a stubborn set to her jaw, a fierce glint to her eye. "I don't think you're trying very hard. Try harder."

He set his jaw. "Believe me, I am trying _very_ hard," he said, through his gritted teeth, "to not…."

Fuck. He couldn't do it anymore, pretend he didn't feel the energy crackling between them. Impulsively, he moved his hands to the sides of her head, and pulled her down to him, emboldened by her hands that suddenly went to his hair, burying her fingers there, pulling him closer to her, too. They crashed together; tasting, feeling, testing, an exploration with tongue and hands and lips, then becoming faster, more urgent, losing all track of time. He ran his lips down her neck, lingered over a spot just beneath her ear that made her cry out softly and swear inarticulately, returned there again and again to hear her and know it was because of him. His hand slid under her shirt, could count the delicate ribs with his fingertips as he moved higher, just brushing against the swell of her breast. He was lost. So lost.

The sound of a bouncing basketball and the shouts of a group of young men permeated the air, coming closer, but still outside the court they were in. It sounded very loud in the empty, echoing gym. He regretfully unwound his hands from her hair. He felt the heat of her lips leave his as she slid to his side, and the sudden cool of the air settled in the voids left behind. They were lying beside each other on their backs, but not touching, staring at the ceiling. They were both breathing hard when the group entered the gym just seconds later, passing them by with a curious glance, en route to the other end of the gym.

Lestrade could not move right away, trying to regain his composure. He could still feel her fingers on his back tracing the design of his ink, setting it all in motion. He groaned, finally, and raised his hand to his face and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He looked over at her. She looked every bit as bothered as he still was, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and wide.

She then sat up quickly. "I'll go change. I'll wait outside." She almost fled from the gym.

Then she was gone, leaving him to sort it all out. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, stared at the ceiling. He tried to calm down, tried not to panic at her quick departure. Well, that answered that. Friends? Maybe. Would they ever be the simple friends they were before? Unknown. She had wanted to test a theory, and they got their answer. They were magnets, irresistibly drawn to each other, now that the floodgates had opened. He could never touch her again without feeling that pull.

He only got up when a basketball landed dangerously close to his head.


	23. Time

Lestrade exited the gym, stood under a streetlight, pulled out a cigarette. It was just a few seconds later he felt a presence next to him, and he looked down. Molly. Thank god.

"I'm sorry I ran out like that."

He considered the cigarette, reconsidered, and put it back in the pack and stowed it in his pocket.

"You just scared the shit out of me," he said. "I wasn't sure you would wait."

"Well you just scared the shit out of _me_," she answered back, not missing a beat.

He frowned. "How'd I do that?"

She sighed. She sat down on the steps leading up to the gym entrance, and he sat down next to her.

"I'm not sure how to explain this," she said. "This is hard to talk about. I'm afraid of this happening. You and me."

He was surprised. "Why, Molly?" he asked, fighting to keep that panic from rising again, his tone even. "I think you know by now how I feel about you." He struggled to find the right words; to not say too much, or too little. He pulled his courage together. "I'm not…I'm not kidding around about this. I want to be with you."

"I believe you," she said, quickly. "That's why you scare me. You are so _damn real_. I believe you 100%. These past few months with dealing with Tom, and with what I was feeling for you…that's never happened to me before. I've never felt the way I feel about you with anybody else."

"Why is that a bad thing?" He was at a loss. He pointed to the gym. "What happened in there. What happened at the wedding. I think you feel what I feel. What's happening here doesn't come along just every day. This is something special. And it's been happening for a while, not just recently. Molly, look at me. I'm not wrong about this, am I?"

"No, you're not wrong," she admitted, meeting his gaze, but then tearing it away again. "It's all so overwhelming!" she cried out. Her voice was now high, strained with emotion. "I just broke off an engagement a few weeks ago. That was hard. It was for the best but it was hard. I just…I'm just beginning to understand. Oh, I don't know!"

She put her hands over her face, took them away again. "I was never good at this...with relationships. I've made some bad choices in the past. I always choose relationships that are doomed. I'm afraid to commit to the ones I know could be good. I'm afraid to care too much. I have a horrible fear of losing everything I care too much about."

Lestrade tried to calm down, distraught by her being so obviously upset. He thought about what she said, could see the connection, tried to understand.

"Your little brother," he said.

She nodded. "And my father and mother. I got left alone in the end." She paused, seemed almost angry at the recollection of her family. "Oh, hell," she said. "I'm not the kind of girl that anyone ever fought over before. I'm not what you think I am. I'm the girl who always had her nose in a book, the girl who never had a date for the dance. Nobody ever noticed me before. I'm nothing special. Nothing special at all."

She stood up quickly. "I have to go."

Lestrade quickly stood up, too. "Now wait, Molly. Listen. It's ok. Nothing has to be decided right now. If you want to go, that's fine. Let me at least walk you to the station."

Molly breathed out heavily. Nodded. "Ok. You're right."

The walk was silent. His mind was running in a dozen different directions. This might turn out more complicated than he had anticipated, he realized only then, with dawning comprehension. He'd only been waiting, rather selfishly, for Tom to be gone. He hadn't allowed himself to consider the aftermath the breakup would cause, for her. He should know. He'd gone through it himself. He'd not been fit for human consumption for quite some time after his divorce. He wondered, with some apprehension, what Molly would need.

When they reached the entrance to the underground, they lingered at the top of the stairs. He took hold of her left hand again, this time empty of a ring, held it lightly.

"I'm not sure I understand what you want, Molls."

She looked down, unable to meet his eye. "I need more time. Time to figure some things out." She paused. "I have a job offer for a temporary position. In Edinburgh, for four months. I'm not sure if I'll take it yet. It would start right away, if I do."

He felt like the wind was knocked out of him. His heart skipped a beat. "No," he breathed out. Not now. Not bloody now. "Don't go, Molls."

She reached out and touched his arm. "I'm not saying no to you, Greg. Maybe...just not right now."

He was still confused, unhappy. "Do you care about me at all?" he asked suddenly. He knew the question was unfair, he knew she did. He knew he was risking even their friendship if he pushed too hard, but he could not entirely control his need to hear her say it.

She looked up at him then, stood up on her toes to give him a light kiss, no more than the brushing of a feather. "Too much," she said, then turned and went down the stairs to the underground station, and disappeared from his sight.

He remained at the top of the stairs for a few minutes more, attempting to think through things, his hand automatically going to his lips where he could still feel her touch. That was not how he wanted things to go. Fuck, he was stupid. He'd hardly been able to respond coherently at all, his emotions getting the better of him, struggling with just trying to take in what she was saying. Finally, his hand slid back into his pocket, reaching for the lighter to roll between his fingers. He walked back to the office.

Later that night, back once again on the couch in his office, he got a text from Molly.

_I'm sorry to tell you this, you won't like it_

_I'm taking that temporary job in Edinburgh_

_I leave day after tomorrow_

And then another.

_I'm not saying no_

He stared at the phone. Fuck it all. Not what he wanted to hear. Hoped that anything that had happened at the wedding, or today, or over the past five years for that matter, might have mattered. He'd hoped that the time she needed would be here in London. At St. Bart's, the Yard, or the other places they might run into each other. He would have given her some space, but he would have had the occasional opportunity to seduce her with his wit and charm, and she would have seen reason sooner than later.

He toyed with the phone. Typed in a message.

_Don't go_

He deleted it without sending it.

_Don't leave me_

Deleted it again without sending.

_I need you_

Delete.

_I love you, Molly Hooper_

_Please stay with me_

Delete.

_I love you_

Delete.

In the end, he sent only one single text back.

_Tell me when you get there safely_

In a moment of uncontrolled frustration, he threw the phone across the room, where it stayed for the rest of the night.

Never the fucking right time.


	24. Misspent Youth

The next day Lestrade sat at his desk. He stared at paperwork in front of him, tapping his pen idly against a blank form that he could not will himself to get started on. He pulled on his tie around his freshly changed shirt from his desk drawer stash, which was feeling too tight against his neck. He took off his reading glasses and laid them on the desk, rubbed his eyes.

He could not stop thinking about last night at the gym. About the feel of the full length of her body underneath him, her hands and mouth on him. And then about the conversation afterwards. Shit. His mind had been such a blank during that conversation with her, almost to the point of tuning out what he didn't want to hear. Why hadn't he said more? Why couldn't he get the right words out when it really counted? Why hadn't he sent a better text?

He had wanted to tell her that she was so wrong about one thing. She _was_ special. She was exactly what he thought she was. He liked that girl with her nose in a book, filling her mind with the riches of knowledge and imagination. He thought he understood her. It was hard to escape the trauma and insecurities of youth, especially the trauma of events of things such as what had happened to her brother. Even when the years rolled relentlessly onwards and the end result was turning into someone capable and strong, like she had.

Some things, he knew, could haunt you forever, if you let them. In his darkest moments he could still feel the sting of inadequacy and unworthiness. His own youth was misspent in ways that to this day still made him surprised to find himself sitting in his own office, in a suit, with a staff to supervise, on the right side of the law. He imagined himself back in the day. If Molly had been inside the school alone, sitting quietly in a chair and waiting for someone to ask her to dance, he would have been outside, sitting on the hood of his car in the school parking lot unable to go in because he'd been suspended, again. Probably smoking a cigarette, or worse. He'd had parents that didn't care much for discipline or education, a father who thought that the ticket to success was to prove who was best in a barroom brawl. He'd had a bit of a problem with authority and had run wild; he'd been no stranger to the inside of a cell back in those days.

But he would have noticed that girl. He would have watched her from afar and wondered what she was reading every day that kept her so interested. He might have sat in the bleachers just above her, tried to hide the fact that he looked over her shoulder to read along. He might have debated about offering her a ride home one afternoon when it was raining and she was picking her way through the puddles of the schoolyard, clutching her precious books, only to chicken out at the last minute. He never would have dared to talk to her back then, though. They would have been on opposite ends of the social spectrum. He sighed. In reality they were separated in age by more than a decade and had grown up hundreds of kilometers apart.

He had joined the military at a young age. He'd been full of a lot of pent-up rage and misplaced energy back then. The military had straightened him out, thank god. After a few years, he was on a better track. It was then he got the tattoo. The wolf was Fenrir from Norse mythology, a subject which had interested him at the time, and still did. Son of Loki, destroyer of the world. But as long as the monstrous wolf was bound with the magic cord, he could do no harm. That was how he had felt. He had wanted to lash out at the world when he was young, but the self-restraint and discipline he'd learned could bind those self-destructive feelings. He got the tattoo to remember that always, to not go back to how he had been. It had been a bumpy road to where he was, and he had more than a few scars and the tattoo to prove it.

He was a very different man now. Stability, training and purpose had provided a path to an adult career that he was good at. Life experience had provided him with a modicum of wisdom. The slights of his own past made him sensitive and tolerant to the problems of others. His own lack of formal education made him hunger for knowledge and admire it in others. There was no doubt he could still be a loud-mouthed, ill-tempered, sarcastic son of a bitch, but it was all so much better than it could have been. He believed in redemption, which is why he could almost understand what drove Sherlock. He saw a little of himself in Sherlock Holmes.

His pen continued to tap on the desk. Jesus, here he was, a middle aged man, mooning around like he was still that kid in high school. He could let it get to him, or he could do something about it. Time for action. He was formulating a plan, thinking about something. That something being unfinished business, the kind that got you by the throat and never let go, the very kind that made it hard to ever move on. He wanted Molly Hooper to be able to move on, to be free of that terrible fear of loss and abandonment. To be able to love him without reservations.

He pushed back from his desk and made his way through the maze of desks in the main office area, determinedly brushing past the officers he knew had questions and other things for him to do or to look at, and took the elevator down to the archives. He knew what he was looking for; he had been there a few times before. The file for Timmy Hooper. This time, though, after he looked at it he did not put the file back in the cardboard box. Instead, he slipped it under his jacket and as inconspicuously as possible, exited the archive room to make copies and sent a text as he went.

One hour later, he let himself into Sherlock's hospital room, where he was convalescing after the gunshot. He didn't look great, still. He was only a week past the shooting, but was doing much better. Sherlock was propped up with a laptop in front of him. Always keeping himself busy with the Work. Obviously Sherlock wasn't going to be on his feet for a while, but thankfully there was nothing wrong with his mind.

"That didn't take long," Sherlock noted, having earlier received the text that Lestrade was on the way. He shifted, winced a bit. "Something interesting? Must be important."

Lestrade pulled out the file and placed it on the bed next to him. It was hard to hand this over to Sherlock. His friend, but also his rival, both professionally and now personally. He was still a little wary of the relationship he shared with Molly Hooper.

But he knew what had to be done. God knows he had tried to make sense of it, but had got nowhere. He wanted to be the one to solve it for her but knew that wasn't likely; dozens before him had tried and failed. There was only one person left who just might do it. So long as it was resolved, that's what mattered, he told himself.

Sherlock saw the name on the spine of the folder, and his eyebrows rose in curiosity as he looked up at him. They both knew the information should never have left the building.

"Finish this," Lestrade said, his words clipped. "Do whatever it takes to solve this one. I don't care how long it takes. I want to know who did this."

He started to walk away, but turned back, wanting to clarify because Sherlock could be quite literal at times. "If that perp is still alive, I mean don't kill him, just bring him in."

Sherlock nodded and said a bit enigmatically, "I'd already started to do some digging."

Lestrade nodded curtly once in return, then turned on his heel and left.

Before the day was done, he had one more thing to finish. Something he would not let get him by the throat. It was time to say what he wanted to say; he would not live with regrets any more.


	25. Don't Say Anything

Several hours later, Lestrade stood in front of Molly Hooper's flat. It was raining outside. He wore a raincoat, but had completely forgotten to bring an umbrella when he left his own flat for the underground station.

He knew where Molly lived because he had dropped her off here a few times, but he had never been inside her flat. Not once, in all the years he had known her. They always seemed to gather somewhere else, like at 221B, which seemed to be the nucleus of their little group. Sherlock had been inside, though. He frowned. A fork of lightening lit up the sky, and seconds later, a crash of thunder reverberated in the air.

He had gone home after seeing Sherlock. He had showered and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, taking some time while he thought about what he wanted to say. Romantically speaking, he had staggered through most of his life, not exactly planning things out and going from one moment to another without ever quite knowing how he got there. He'd married Lola without thinking about it too much. But now he had a second chance at love, later in life, and he had no intention of letting it slip by. He knew what he wanted. He was making a conscious decision. He was choosing Molly Hooper.

Gathering his resolve, he walked up the steps to the front door, and paused there. Stood there in the rain for a minute, thinking, welcoming the feel of the cool rain in stark contrast to the hot July day. His hair was still damp from the shower but now the rain was soaking it more and it ran down into his shirt as well. He wondered what to do next, then sent a text. The way they seemed to communicate best, he thought with some irony. Not always so well in person.

_Are you home?_

He was pretty sure she was, he could see the lights on through her windows. Droplets of water were pattering against the panes of glass and slipping down in rivulets. She was probably preparing to leave tomorrow. He waited a minute, the rain still falling, and finally the answer came.

_Yes_

_Why?_

He texted back.

_Open your door_

Seconds later, the door opened. She had a look of complete surprise but also something like relief on her face, and she stepped back immediately for him to enter. She was wearing an old vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt and jeans, her hair held back in a simple ponytail in her typical unassuming way, and for some reason, she had never looked more beautiful to him. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. The cat jumped off the chair and came over to twine around his legs, purring.

It was nearly dark in the living room where they were standing, the only light coming from a bedroom down the hall, illuminating things just enough to make them out. In the background he could see objects strewn about, like a suitcase open and partially full, which he quickly looked away from, not wanting to think about it.

Here, finally, they were in the privacy of her flat, where no one else was around to interrupt. He stood there a moment, water still dripping from his hair down his neck, into his damp shirt, sliding off his coat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought about the puddles he was probably leaving on her floor. She was about to say something, but he suddenly plunged forward, quick to speak before he lost his nerve, not holding anything back. He did not know how all this would end, but he did know he would never regret telling her what he felt.

"Molly. Don't say anything. I'm not here to talk you out of going. If that's what you need to do, then do it. I just need to tell you something. You don't have to say anything. Please, just let me say it."

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then didn't, and simply nodded her head for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. "I just wanted to tell you what I think has been going on for the past few years. I am a sometimes bad-tempered jackass of a man. Do you really think I go out of my way to bring coffee to anyone else, just to make them happy? Do you really think I give self-defense lessons to anybody else in my free time? Do I even have free time? I make that time for you, because I like to be with you. I don't randomly stop by to visit anybody else at their job to chat. I don't text anybody else conversationally. I save all my worst jokes for you."

She was staring at him, fixated, her eyes luminous in the dark. He continued, his eyes locked with hers.

"I certainly don't let anybody else feel up my tattoo. I don't hover around anybody else like a fucking bodyguard, as has been pointed out to me. It's been a while since somebody tried to punch me because of the way I looked at a woman. Like how I look at you. I just don't get along with other people like I get along with you. So this is the thing; you _are_ somebody special. Special to _me_."

He took another deep breath. It was now, or maybe never. "I'm in love with you, Molly Hooper. For a long time now, I've been in love with you."

Suddenly the silence he had asked for from her seemed deafening, now that he had put it all out there. The next few silent seconds that passed seemed endless. He looked down, breaking their gaze, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "I'll leave, if you want."

He didn't even know who moved towards whom first, but suddenly her arms were sliding up and around his neck, pulling him down to her. Responding immediately he put his arms around her so tight that her feet nearly lifted off the floor, she was so light, as he turned around and pushed her into the wall by the door and he ground his lips into hers without even thinking. He leaned over to run his lips down the side of her neck to her collarbone and back up the other side, over her jaw line, back to her lips, roaming over everything exposed and available to him. He could taste the tang of salt on her skin, could smell the perfume from her hair each time she moved. His hands held her at the hips, pulling her into his own, feeling the exquisite pleasure of the pressure of her body against his and he knew she could not mistake his arousal. He could not have said how much time had passed while they explored, urged, answered, gave to each other, their actions saying everything that had been left unspoken.

He trailed his lips down below her ear again, to that spot he loved to taste and which he knew could undo her, and she softly moaned his name. This was technically saying something but it so deeply satisfied him he would let that one word slide, that simple sound of his name coming from her waking something fierce in him. "I want you," he said, against her neck, almost a growl. "So much I can't think straight around you. I think about it all the time, how good we could be together."

He felt her tremble at his words. He could feel her heart pounding, hard and fast. There was a roaring in his head, a pounding in his own chest to match hers, urging him to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. He wanted that. He wanted that, strongly, urgently, and at just that very moment he thought she would have welcomed that, too. Under his touch he could feel her shirt and jeans were wet from where his own damp clothes were soaking into her. How much better it would be to simply strip them all away and be done with all the unnecessary barriers that separated them from each other. But there it was. Would it really be better. He wanted her to be absolutely certain. Not just now but tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. And if he was honest with himself, he didn't think she was.

To gain control, he pulled his hands away, placed them on either side of her against the wall. He was still leaning into her, droplets of water from his hair dripping onto the pale, smooth skin exposed by the v-neck of her shirt, sliding down between the cleft of her breasts now so visibly outlined under her damp shirt. He could not tear his eyes away from watching those droplets slide downwards, mesmerized, bewitched by this woman who was everything good and real and right in his world. Finally, he spoke again. "I want to make love to you, Molls, when the time is right. I want that more than anything. I've always loved everything about you, but surely you have to know by now, I want all of you."

He used all his will to defy the gravity pulling them together. With extreme difficulty he pulled away to leave some space between them. He hadn't meant for this to happen, to stir things up again so much, but he did a lot of things around Molly Hooper he didn't intend to do. He could see her suck in her breath, her lips moving slightly, and it looked like she was starting to say something again.

"No, don't say anything." His hands came away from the wall to frame her face which tilted up to look at him. "Take time to think. Be sure. Because if this happens, I want you to choose me. _Choose_ me. Not _default_ to me because you think you should."

Their gaze held for a long moment, he felt like he was drowning in her eyes, and he was the first to look away. He released his light hold on her and ran a now free hand over his wet hair, slicking it back, then down his face to rasp against his five o'clock shadow.

"After you go, tell me how you're doing, ok? Chat about the weather. The news. The cat. Anything. But don't say anything about how you feel until you're sure. And if you don't want…if you don't feel…" he said, but his voice faltered, unable to continue that train of thought.

He went to the door and put his hand on the door knob, saw Molly still leaning against the wall, bracing herself now with her own hands at either side or her, her hair mussed, her lips red and swollen and slightly parted, still looking at him with her big brown eyes. He steeled himself from turning back to her, to keep himself from following every urge that was screaming in his veins, knowing tomorrow she would leave.

He squared his shoulders. "But if you do, feel something…and if you feel sure, please, let me know," he said again, this time more firmly. "But, Christ, I hope it's sooner than later." And then he opened the door, and exited back into the rain again, his heart breaking, maybe just a little.


	26. Just in Time For the Circus

_Four months later- October_

It was a Friday in late October. He was just getting back to the office after a three week absence to pursue further training in criminal investigation. He had received a promotion three months ago, to Detective Chief Inspector, and further training was required. The time away had been a welcome break. Hard work, for sure—it had been a long time since he'd been in a classroom-but the work was challenging and what he learned was applicable, at the very least not a waste of time. Had to do these things if he was going to make Superintendent someday. All in all, his career was looking up and he was feeling better about things at work than he had in a long time. Years, maybe.

He sat down behind his desk with a steaming cup of coffee, getting used to the feel of the chair again. Stupid, really, to come back on a Friday. Should have taken the weekend and then come back Monday. But there was always work to do. There were stacks of files to be read, mail to be opened, e-mail to read. And the e-mail, my god, the e-mail to be sorted. Who even knew there could be so many useless messages about donuts in the break room or birthdays or whatever. The red light was blinking on his phone annoyingly, accusingly, reminding him there were phone messages to be answered, too.

Sally Donovan tapped on the door and stuck her head in. "Welcome back, Boss," she said. "Just in time for the circus. Big trial going on. Things are crazy."

"Yeah, looks it," he agreed absently. He hadn't paid much attention to whatever trial was going on, focused on his own work. "Thanks for holding things together. Let's talk later, yeah? I've got loads to go through here."

She nodded and moved away. Lestrade picked up a pen, turned his attention to his desk, wondering where to begin. His phone chimed for an incoming text, and distractedly he picked it up and glanced at it.

_Looking forward to tomorrow. What time should we meet? _

_Liz_

He stared at the text, momentarily caught off guard. It had been a long time since he'd had a personal text like this. Frankly, he still found it surprising. He had a date. He had met Liz in the three-week course. She taught at University and had delivered a number of the lectures on criminal profiling. She was probably near his same age, and smart, pretty, and nice. Tall, nearly as tall as him, and blonde, with legs that went on and on. He was flattered she had flirted with him so shamelessly in the pub after class, even though it had been a little risqué to flirt with a so-called student. He had debated for a while but on the last day, after the class was over, he asked her out.

This was good, this was the right thing to do, he told himself, for about the twentieth time. He knew he should move on. Right after Molly left for Edinburgh, he got one text that said she had arrived safely, and after that, nothing. He texted back that first time, but she did not respond. Not about the weather. Or the news. Or the cat. He'd thought for sure he would hear something sooner or later. Now it was going on four months. Still no word. Four months of thinking about her, imagining what they could be like together, now that he'd had a glimpse. He had fantasized about her smooth skin, chocolate eyes, her long hair brushing against his face as she moved above him, what it would be like to be inside her. He was tired of enjoying that fantasy with just himself for company.

Fuck. She said she needed time but this was a lot of time. _With no word_. Maybe she just wasn't interested in him after all. Maybe he'd been wrong. He slapped the phone down on his desk in irritation. Why go down this road again. It had been nice to be out of London with new things to occupy his mind and time and not think about it every goddamn day for once. He had work to do.

A few hours later, Sally returned, and he could feel her presence hovering outside the door, uncharacteristically pacing a little. "Yes?" he said loudly, sounding a little unfairly impatient. There was just so much to do. "Is there something else?"

She hesitated, then made up her mind and came in. "Listen, there is something you should know." She held a piece of paper out to him. "This is a list of people that are going to get security for the trial. The witnesses and experts."

"Thanks. You can just leave it on my desk. I'll have a look at it tomorrow."

She walked it over to him, still holding it out for him to take. "I think you need to look at it now."

Sally rarely prevaricated. "Why?" he asked warily, taking the paper and having a look at it. "This isn't our div…."

And then he saw the last name on the list.

_Molly Hooper—Forensic Pathologist_

He was rendered silent for a moment. "But that doesn't make any sense," he said, leaning back in his chair, twirling the pen between his fingers with some agitation. "She's in Edinburgh."

"Not any more she's not," Sally answered, "She's already back."

Both their phones chimed simultaneously with incoming texts.

"You've got to be kidding me," Sally said, reading it. "There's been a break-in. At Molly Hooper's flat."

He'd already read the message. It all made sense now, why she was back. The trial, the one she'd been working on with Gregson. Happening now. He'd just not realized it, since he'd been out of town himself the past few weeks. Lestrade was up and out of his chair in a minute, grabbing his coat and heading out the door.

"That's not even our Division!" Sally yelled after him, to no avail. Resigned, she rolled her eyes and hurried after him, grabbing her coat along the way.

"Here we go again," she muttered, trying to keep up.


	27. A Fine Homecoming

Well this was a fine homecoming, she thought, crossly. Molly Hooper sat huddled on the couch in her flat, a blanket around her shoulders, while two officers buzzed around her, talking on phones and radios which squawked on and off. Toby was not happy and went straight from his cat carrier to under the bed, his favorite hiding place. She looked around at the mess. The flat had been completely tossed. The door had been broken in, and drawers were emptied on the floor and chairs knocked over.

There was only one thing that appeared to be missing, and eerily, it was part of a photo. Her face had been ripped from the only original photo she had of her family, when Timmy was still living, the rest of the photo left behind on the floor. She didn't care about any of the other things that were broken, but that was irreplaceable. She had a scanned copy, but nothing could ever replace that original. This could only be about the trial. If they wanted to frighten her they were doing a good job. This would not stop her from giving her expert opinion for the murder trial. It was her duty to speak for the dead.

She had come back to London for the trial. She knew it was coming up and had been working with Tobias Gregson on the case for more than a year. But for once, it had been scheduled earlier than predicted. She'd had to leave her temporary job in Edinburgh one week earlier than expected. She had contacted only the administrators at Bart's in order to make plans to return. She nibbled at her lip. To anyone else, she hadn't said a word - not friends from the lab, not Sherlock…not Greg Lestrade. The very thought of his name made her heart turn over. She had planned to call him tonight. Exactly what she was going to say hadn't been entirely clear to her yet, but she knew she had to see him. But then all this had happened and she was completely thrown off course, her plans up in smoke. She needed to pull herself together before she saw him again. Probably a good thing she wouldn't see him right away.

That thought lasted another ten blissful seconds.

She heard loud footsteps on the stairs accompanied by a booming voice that could only belong to one person. She inwardly rejoiced and cringed simultaneously. The door swung open and Greg Lestrade blew into the room like a one-man tornado. Sally Donovan was right behind him.

His eyes roved the room, first settled on her on the couch, then took in the mess, then back to her. He looked…angry. Concerned, relieved, but definitely angry. He put his hands on his hips, brushing his coat to the sides.

"OUT!" he yelled, looking at the officers in the flat. Then again, more evenly, "Everybody out." The people in the room stopped moving, and it got quiet. Although he was not in charge of this unit, he was still the most senior officer in the room at the moment and fairly high up the chain of command at the Yard. "I need two minutes here." He moved back to the door and held it open. "_Please_."

The other officers and Sally Donovan looked at each other. Donovan just shrugged, and motioned for them to do what he said. After they exited, he shut the door behind him, as best it would shut with the broken lock and splintered wood.

He stood there looking at her, hands on his hips again. _DCI_ Lestrade, she had heard through the grapevine, looking every inch a newly minted man. He was wearing a nice black dress coat, plaid scarf, and a well-cut black suit with white shirt. His beautiful silvery hair had grown out a little. If it were not so severely brushed back a fringe might actually fall across his forehead. He looked so handsome to her at just that moment she could hardly breathe.

"Are you all right?" he asked, a little more gently, but still a little gruff.

She found her voice, but it came out with a little bit of a squeak. "I'm all right. I got here not too long ago. It was already like this." She wanted to do something, move a little closer to him, but the forbidding look on his face kept her rooted in place.

He brushed his hair back from his forehead, which didn't really need brushing back, mostly out of habit. "Thank god for that. I was going crazy, not knowing…" He let out his breath, continued more evenly, professionally. "Is this the first thing that's happened? Have you received any other threats, like a phone call or text? Do you think you've been followed?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing. Well, this whole trial has me on edge but there is nothing specific that I can point to. But here is one strange thing." She showed him the broken picture frame and the ripped photo.

He frowned deeply. "You reported that to the other officers?"

She nodded.

He looked at her another few seconds, his eyes boring into hers.

He walked right over to the couch and stood just a few feet away, staring down at her. A tendon flexed in his neck, she was close enough to see it. She recalled with vivid clarity the last night she'd seen him when he came to her flat. She had been packing, and not entirely happy about it, thinking about him. And then he had appeared at her door as if the strength of her thoughts had conjured him out of thin air. Everything he'd said to her had so perfectly reflected what she had been feeling at the time; he'd mercifully given her the gift of silence, the gift of touching him one last time before she had left. Now she could smell his cologne, the faint whiff of smoke on his jacket. The sudden recalled memory of it, now so real and right in front of her, made her almost dizzy to think how much she'd missed it.

He paused, momentarily hesitating, but then continued. "I've thought of a lot of different things I'd say to you, when, or if, I ever got the chance again. Damn if I can think of any of them right now."

Molly wanted desperately to divert his attention away from staring at her like that. Anything to break the tension. He was pissed off. She got that. She had left for Edinburgh and during the whole four months she was away, she hadn't contacted him. Not even once, except to say she'd arrived safely, like he'd asked. She'd just been so…confused, in a bad place when she left. Things had been so tumultuous and she had felt so strongly about him. But she wasn't sure, she just hadn't been sure, what was real and what was a reaction to breaking off her engagement….it had all been too much. She needed time away alone, to think it through. Time had passed and she never found the words.

The words still escaped her. "Did you buy a new suit?" she finally asked, a little lamely, but she had noticed that right away. She had always noticed everything about him, she realized.

He blinked. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Three."

"Are those new shoes?"

He looked down at the new black dress shoes, sighed in exasperation. "Yes."

"Your hair is longer. I like it. You look good."

Rattled, he smoothed his hair back. "Well, I've been busy. No time to…"

Then he stopped, took a deep breath, straightened up. "Stop trying to distract me. I'm going to open this door now or people will start talking. This isn't my crime scene, I'm just throwing my weight around so I could see you and see what happened for myself." He stared at her again, more thoughtfully. "I shouldn't talk to you much until this trial is over, or there will be gossip, and it might look bad for you. You can't afford for anything to negatively affect your statement. Probably not good for me, either, but people are always saying shit about me. Me coming here right now doesn't help with that, but, well. That's that."

He paused again. "You've got some explaining to do, Molly Hooper."

She shut her eyes tightly, then opened them again. "I know," she said softly, suddenly overcome.

Something flickered across his face for a moment, but then he crossed the room and opened the door to let in the team again. In a matter of seconds his professional guard was back up. He looked for Sally Donovan. "Well, she can't stay here," he said to Donovan, as if she wasn't even there. "The front door lock is busted. And CSI will need to process it. What about the safe house." He sounded very distant, very clinical.

"Already been arranged," Sally said. "They're on it. Someone will take her over there."

Molly frowned. There was no point to argue, they were right. But she stuck her chin out, a little defiantly. She could be distant, too. "And my cat," she butted into their conversation. "He can't stay here, not with people coming and going. He could get out."

He looked over at her and nodded. "The cat, too."

"I'm going to look around before CSI gets here," he said, then disappeared into the back rooms for a good five minutes and when he came back out he had his phone in one hand and was barking orders. He did not speak to her again before he left.

Molly continued to sit on the couch, feeling a little numb. She had never experienced him like this before. Now she knew what people were talking about when they described his forbidding looks, bossy ordering around, and epic tire kicking sessions. But they all did what he said, she noted. With the possible exception of Sally Donovan, but she already knew that. Molly was used to being his friend, part of the inside circle. Hell, she had been kissed by him with such cataclysmic effects it had changed her life. He had told her he loved her. It was like none of that had ever happened. And now here she was, herself the victim, looking into his world from the opposite side.

She was beginning to realize how foolish, how very foolish she had been. How unfair her silence had been. She knew everything she had felt had been real. Had always been real. She had always felt it, for years even, but had lacked the courage to accept it. She suddenly understood with vivid clarity what she wanted. She wanted DCI Greg Lestrade. Seeing him again, so unexpectedly and in these circumstances, was devastating. God, how she wanted him.

She wished there had been no one else there when she first saw him. She wished he'd walked in, said nothing and just pushed her up against a wall like he had done that night. They would have shown each other just how much they had missed each other, unrestrained, all doubt forgotten. The image was so strong she actually moaned out loud in frustration, but not so loud that the officers still there had heard, she hoped.

Now the ball was in her court, if things were going to turn around. It had been in her court the past four months and she had botched things badly. She would have to win him back. She just hoped it wasn't too late.


	28. Texts from Sally

Later that night, Lestrade sat on the barstool at his usual pub, a beer in front of him, a football match going in the background. He held his scratched silver lighter in his hands, turning it over and over in his fingers. Fuck, he wanted a cigarette. He had quit, again. It had been a long and tumultuous day, but he didn't want to go home, not yet.

His phone was on the counter in front of him. It was chiming regularly with incoming texts from Sally. He looked at them as they came in and none seemed critical.

_Molly and her stupid cat are at the safe house. _

_At flat with CSI, almost done, they said I could stick around_

_Just so you know, I'm doing this as a favor to you, not our division_

_No, no, don't bother to thank me_

_Locksmith fixed door with three deadbolts instead of just one_

_Who's supposed to pay the locksmith for this door? _

_Everything done here at the flat we are closing up for night _

_Are you there? _

_If you are reading these texts and ignoring them I will kill you _

That last one forced a little smile out of him. But he still didn't answer.

He thought about what had happened that day. He'd been more than a bit of an asshole when he saw Molly Hooper. He just hadn't been…prepared. No time to process. How could he go so quickly from being so relieved to see her safe, sitting so rigidly with those big scared eyes under her blanket, to a hot searing anger. Not anger, initially. Hurt. The blinding, white-hot hurt of rejection, leading to anger. He had laid it all on the line, and he had got back…nothing.

He had thought a lot about it over the months, but his feelings had simmered, just under the surface. He was a practical guy. Horrible crimes went on, people depended on him. He could not let it affect the job. He just had to_ get on with things._ But seeing her today, unexpectedly, without her letting him know she was coming back, was like a knife twisting in the gut. Fuck. Rationally, he knew he'd probably overreacted. After all, he was the one who told her not to say anything. Emotionally, though, he had hoped that she would have.

He had taken a look around the flat, just to see it all for himself before the Crime Scene Investigation unit arrived. He had looked around closely at everything. He was of course professionally interested, but his attention wandered as he looked at all the details of her life. He had been inside only one time before, the last night he'd seen her. Now, as he had then, he thought of how Sherlock had spent more time at Molly's flat than he ever had. Sherlock knew about the cat. The tea. The paintings. Knew all about the bed linens. Had been on the bed linens, with Molly. He himself had never even made it that far. He thought about that last time he saw her, when he probably could have, and mentally kicked himself. Something dark and heavy filled his chest, the worst of things to feel. Betrayal. Jealousy. Still, even after all this time, after he knew nothing was going on between them, he was jealous of the things they shared that he was not part of.

In the spare bedroom, he had seen a large easel set up in the middle of the room with a white canvas draped half over it. Curious, he had taken a pen from his shirt pocket and lifted up the cloth. He stopped and stared for a good full minute, completely surprised. He recognized it immediately. It was an abstract rendering of his own tattoo. In the lower right corner was her own name, and in the lower left corner was a title: _Fenrir_. She had done her homework.

The painting was not completely finished. She had not been able to study the tattoo long enough to learn every last detail, but it was clear enough. A giant black wolf, snarling with ferocious teeth and a sword holding open the mouth, bent forward into a nearly perfect circle with front paws and back paws touching, bound together with a cord. And right in the middle of the circle made by the wolf, there was a little blue bird with its head tucked under its wing, without a care in the world, sleeping trustfully.

As he looked at it, he remembered the feel of her fingertips running across his back, how she had slowly traced his ink like an artist with a brush. He shut his eyes. The cloth dropped back down over the painting. At some point, months ago, Molly Hooper must have thought enough about him to paint this. It must have taken days. Days of thinking about what she had seen and felt in order to recreate it. Moved enough to express her feelings on canvas. Why would she take days to paint this and never say a word to him after she left? He could make no sense of it.

Frustration had welled in him. Why were they wasting all this time. Standing in front of that easel, he had been suddenly so flooded with an angry, erotic desire for her, images in his mind of pushing her down on that couch and fucking her with the whole police force looking on for all he cared, that he had to take a few minutes for control to return before he came back out. That's when he went back to the living room, but did not mention the painting to her, could not. He was done there. He was compromised and he knew it. He had to leave the scene and left it to the unit actually responsible for it to get on with their job.

Fuck. He had not handled that well. He wanted to go back in time and do that all differently. Even now, he was surprised by his own thoughts, by the primal, visceral impact of the desire he had felt for her in that moment. In a perfect world, in which he was not the law and she was not the vic and he was under control, he would have taken her gently in his arms to calm her fears. She must have been terrified. He should have been able to put all his emotions aside and take the high road, like a fucking professional. _Asshole_, he berated himself, again.

His phone chimed.

_Sorry to bother you, you must be busy, but are we still on for tomorrow? _

_Liz_

Oh, shit. He'd completely forgot to answer when she texted this morning. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

He made a rash decision. He was going to answer. He wanted to know what it would feel like to be with someone new with whom he had no history, no complications. To see what he might be like through someone else's eyes. To feel fully desired, wanted. One last chance to save himself.

_I'll meet you at 6_

Definitely the right thing to do. But he frowned, anyway. He paid for his beer and finally went home.

Late that night, after he'd gone to bed and had been asleep for a few hours, his phone chimed again. He woke up with a start, reached out to the nightstand and fumbled for the phone, tried to focus with bleary eyes. He was mentally preparing to get up and deal with something, like he had done so many times before.

_I'm sorry_

_Molly Hooper_

He sank back down into bed. His lips quirked a little. She signed it "Molly Hooper." As if he didn't know her number. Despite his resolve to remain pissed, his anger was mellowing.

He thought for a while before he decided to answer. He texted back.

_That's a good start_

_Greg Lestrade_

For the seven hundred and fifty-fifth time in his career, he hoped the Yard would never investigate the personal use of his work phone.


	29. Tell Me it Will be All Right

On Saturday, Molly managed to get out of the hotel, but with an officer to escort her. She had to go to Bart's to pick up files to prepare for her meeting on Monday to deliver her expert opinion. She also had to pick up something to wear. She had some decent things in her flat. It was weird to visit her flat again, with everything tossed around like it was. The door lock was fixed, though, which was comforting. She noted the extra deadbolts.

She would be so glad when this was over. She had never experienced anything like this. The blatant intimidation tactics to silence the witnesses were doing the job of stressing her out, but she would do her best to carry on with fortitude and dignity. She knew that the person on trial was some sort of crime boss person who had ordered the hits she had autopsied. The killer was yet at large. Which was an incredibly creepy feeling.

Her only role was to serve as an expert witness and present her opinion on the forensic evidence. She would not actually attend the trial; rather it was customary that she would attend a meeting with both sides before the trial. She was obligated to present the evidence both for and against the possibility that two homicides, aka the hits, were related. She had done this before; it was part of the job of a forensic pathologist. She didn't just do autopsies. She also went over cases with police officers and families to explain the details to them, which is how she met Greg Lestrade in the first place.

That evening, in her hotel room, she pored over the files. Looked at the pictures and she went over her prepared statements again. The pictures of the two separate cases before her were hard to look at, despite her years of experience. There were some things you just never got used to. The throats had been slashed, in addition to other unspeakable things. This was always the hardest type of wound for her to deal with. It brought back memories of her little brother and how they had found him in a field, his own throat slashed. She remembered the photos in Timmy's files. The photos for the trials were very similar, causing even more creepy feelings to haunt her.

She was really unnerved to be in a position where she had to have security. If things weren't as screwed up as they were at the moment, and it was all her own doing, she might have been with Greg Lestrade right now. She would have shared her jittery fears with him, and he would have said something funny or kind to make her feel better. They might have talked about it over a beer at the pub, or maybe at Bart's when he swung by when he had a few minutes to spare, two cups of coffee in hand. Or, if she had been truly blessed, maybe at her flat, or his, lying with him on the couch, her head on his chest, him absently stroking her hair. She could feel a frustrated longing building deep within her, vying for her attention, pulling her away from the files.

Finally, she put the files aside early and slipped under the covers, turning off the light as Toby snuggled in beside her. She was as prepared as she could be for the meeting, and there was still tomorrow if she needed more time. She was so tired, but sleep did not come. She tossed and turned. Interspersed with the rather intimate thoughts of Greg Lestrade that plagued her, other things intruded. Gruesome photos from the trial would not leave her head. It was unusual for her to feel this way; she was not prone to night terrors. Every footstep in the hallway made her tense up as she imagined someone breaking into the room.

She gave in and grabbed her phone from the night stand. She scrolled through her messages and e-mail. Nothing. Not from the person she wanted to hear from, anyway. She nibbled on her lip. She was probably feeling a little needy and overly dramatic. She wanted to reach out to the one person who she wanted most to help her through this. In the light of day she would probably regret she had sent it. But right now, she needed this. Needed him to tell her everything would be all right. She sent the text.

A few minutes went by with no response. She sighed, disappointed, settled down further under the covers, but still held her phone tightly. Just as she was starting to drift off again, it buzzed and a text briefly illuminated her hand with a small pool of light. She smiled, and held the phone close to her chest, finally feeling safe.


	30. If You Change Your Mind

It felt….strange.

Liz was lovely. The food was excellent. The wine was chosen wisely. The conversation interesting. By all rights this should have been going well. He was a little quiet, but tried to politely keep up his side of the conversation. He thought he had done a pretty good job.

After the dinner, he walked Liz back to her flat. It was getting late, and he was getting tired. What the hell was wrong with him. He tried not to check his watch. It was about time for the security shift change at the safe house. He wondered who was on duty. Jesus. It wasn't even his responsibility. But he wondered, just the same.

They walked up the steps and paused in the stoop. She reached into her handbag for her keys, but did not open the door right away. "Thanks for a great evening," she said. "You know, I was surprised you asked me out. I was trying like hell to get you to notice me. I didn't think you were going to."

"Oh, well. I noticed," he answered, smiling a little. "I thought it would be better to wait until the course was over. People talk too much."

"My girlfriends are jealous," she said. "They're going to ask for a full report of what you're really like."

Lestrade's forehead creased. "Why would they do that?"

She laughed. "Oh, come on. You're a little bit famous. 'DCI Lestrade who works with Sherlock Holmes.' Hero Inspector. You're in the paper quite often, you know."

"Oh." He didn't know, really. He avoided the papers. He had difficulty forgetting the time a few years ago the when the press had turned against Sherlock and they had all been drug through the mud, his reputation tarnished right alongside Sherlock's. It had all happened about the time his divorce was finalized. He'd turned inwards, shutting himself off from others out of wariness, focusing on the job. Which had paid off with a promotion, but not much social life. Sherlock's return and the subsequent reversal of fortune had restored their reputations, even to legendary proportions. But none of that hype was real.

"I never read that stuff," he said.

"Modest," she mused. "That's refreshing, actually." She moved a little closer. "And very attractive."

He knew what was coming, and did not resist. She leaned towards him and kissed him. She pressed lightly against him in the darkened alcove at the top of the stairway. He hesitated, then kissed her back hungrily at first, maybe some frustration finding release, responding automatically to the touch and feel of a beautiful woman who was putting the moves on him. Her curves were pleasurable under his hands; she was doing an excellent job of working to please him. Physically it was all more than enjoyable, but he wasn't particularly… moved. His thoughts were drifting. It just felt…off.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He sighed, pulled away. "I've got to look." He shrugged apologetically. "Life of a cop." He took the phone out.

_I'm a little bit scared_

_Please tell me everything will be ok_

He stared at the phone, his grip tightening.

"Something serious?" Liz asked, intrigued. "A crime in progress?"

He shook his head. "No." Then reconsidered.

"_Yes,_" he corrected with emphasis, through gritted teeth. A goddamn crime that he and Molly were still at odds with each other, after all this time. He put the phone back in his pocket. "But nothing I can do about it just now." Not until her part in the trial was over, anyway.

He itched to answer the text, distraught that she was afraid. He was trying to remain distant and reasonable so no one would accuse him, or her, of being unprofessional. Yes, it was the prudent thing to do. But it sounded lame, even to himself. He allowed himself the tiniest bit of self-realization that probably it had more to do with him needing some time to cool down. It was getting increasingly more difficult to stay away.

"Would you…like to come in?" she asked, the offer clear enough.

She was nice. She really was. He briefly considered her offer. But this wasn't going to work out, he should have known. It had been a good try. If this had happened two years ago or six months ago or hell, even last week if he'd been feeling particularly alone-they might have been halfway to the bed by now. If it had happened any other time when Molly Hooper wasn't in his head or wasn't sitting in a safe house alone somewhere, frightened, sending him texts in the night. But it was so much more than that, he knew. She was irreversibly lodged in his heart. He sighed in resignation. It was Molly he wanted; no one else would do.

"I'm sorry, Liz. I really am. You're great. It's just…" he shrugged again, apologetic. "I just can't."

Liz was disappointed but recovered quickly, for which he was grateful. She was confident and in control. She had directed this whole encounter from the very beginning. He had been happy to rather passively comply, and very flattered to be pursued. It had done wonders for his ego. But this would be the end. He realized she deserved a better explanation.

"Look," he said. "You really are great. But something has come up. That wasn't in place before we made plans. Things are...changed. I'm really sorry."

She looked at him speculatively. "Hmm. I think you mean _somebody_, not something." Her eyes searched his face then roamed to his pocket where he had put the phone away after reading the text. Shit. She was a profiler, he thought to himself, she could probably read him like a book. She did not, however, make an issue of it.

"Well," she said. "I appreciate your honesty." She sighed. "I know a good man when I see one. If you change your mind… you have my number." She put her key in the lock and he waited for her to get safely into the flat. He paused for a moment outside, thought about her compliment and felt briefly guilty, but that dissipated as he headed out to the sidewalk, trying not to appear too hasty.

He checked his watch. Yes, he could just make it in time to see who was leaving and who was coming on duty. He knew he shouldn't, he really shouldn't. But he was going to, anyway. He wasn't going to see her, just…check things out. He looked at the text message again. Twice now she had reached out to him. Molly Hooper was taking the lead. His heart lurched, and his mood lightened just a little. He took a moment to send a response.

_Everything's going to be ok_

Ten minutes later he jumped out of a cab, and strode into the lobby of the safe house hotel and took the elevator up. He exited into the hallway on the fifth floor only, to his utter astonishment, find someone sleeping in a chair at the end of the hallway. The plainclothes cop, who's only job it was to watch who came and went from the elevator or stairwell, was fast asleep. It wasn't even that late. He walked over to the cop and gave his foot a swift kick, not hard, just enough to knock the cop's elbow off his knee which his head was balanced on. Several trial witnesses were in this hallway, not just Molly Hooper. Jesus, this wasn't even his job. Did he have to do everything himself.

The night went late. It turned into a recognized security breach and all the rooms had to be checked. He was standing in the hallway with his back to the wall and his arms crossed in front of him when another officer knocked on Molly Hooper's door. He knew better than to do it himself.

She opened the door after a minute, wearing a fluffy white hotel robe and looked like she had just been woken up, her long hair softly mussed around her shoulders. She caught his gaze and held it for a long moment. She looked a little sad to see him, he noted, and he frowned. Then she let the officer into the room to do the security check and followed him in, the door closing behind her.

Shit. She looked pretty, all sleepy and soft. This time when he saw her his reaction was less volatile. This whole situation pissed him off, though; the thought that she had been threatened and left unprotected made his blood boil. His anger at the security breach surfaced all over again and he had a few more angry words for any other officer who had the misfortune to cross his path. But eventually things calmed down and he finally went home, thoughts of a softly mussed Molly Hooper in his head.

The next morning, Sunday, he slept in. He woke up to feel full sunlight on his face, coming in through the part in the curtains. Miraculously, nothing else had happened after the events at the safe house and nobody had called him. He had slept long and hard without interruption. He would probably go into the office later, but not just yet. Maybe enjoy a cup of coffee, read a little. It was a rare moment of quiet.

His phone chimed. So much for quiet. Sometimes when he heard that noise he just wanted to pick up the phone and chuck it against the wall, and had actually done that a few times, but the job was the job. He reached for it.

_I went away for good reasons_

_I was confused_

His head settled back down into the pillow again. This was becoming a habit, getting texts from Molly in bed. His thumb hovered over the phone, then he punched in a few words.

_That makes two of us_

She did not answer for a few minutes, and when she did she changed tactics.

_You were there last night_

_Do you ever stop working_

His hand holding the phone up before him dropped to the bed, and he looked up at the ceiling for a while. He sighed heavily. Couldn't she see? He never stopped working, not where she was concerned. Christ, it was true. He would do anything for her, anything. But he did not say that. He was a little irritated by the sappy nature of his own thoughts, irritated he was unable to keep up a proper indignation about her four month silence. He answered.

_I'm not at work now_

_I'm still in bed_

A minute passed. Then two, before her response came back.

_Me too_

Ok. That was not helpful. He felt his body automatically respond to the thoughts that ran through his head. She was probably still in the fluffy robe. Or not in the robe, even better...

Maybe she was stretched out languidly under the duvet with loose hair across her pillow, maybe curled up with the cat. In that other perfect world, where maybe they were together in person instead of talking by text, he would get up first to make the coffee and bring a cup to her so the cat could sleep on undisturbed.

But he was in this particular shitty world. Time to stop this. Pull yourself together, Lestrade.

He got up and made coffee for himself.


	31. For the Sake of Humanity

It was late that Sunday afternoon. The sun was just going down, and Lestrade reached over to turn on his desk lamp while the rest of the room receded into darkness. He was trying to catch up on same paperwork which hadn't gotten done over the past few days. He looked up when Sally Donovan came in uninvited and abruptly closed the door. Neither did she wait for an invitation to start speaking.

"Well, I don't know what's wrong with you these days, but you've got people jumping all over this place, and not even in our Division," Sally Donovan accused. "Everybody's complaining to me about it."

"Please, come right on in," he said, grumpily, gesturing towards a chair. "What's this about?"

She didn't take a seat. "Nobody wants to take that security assignment at the safe house. After you ripped that guy a new one last night, people are talking."

He sat back in his chair, twirling a pen absently in his hand. "Talking about what? About falling asleep on the job? Causing a massive security breach?" he scoffed. "I'm sorry, but he had it coming."

Sally crossed her arms over her chest. "Yeah, that was bad," she agreed. "But that's not really the issue. Now everyone thinks if they say the wrong thing or look at a certain someone the wrong way, you're going to bust their ass. And they don't even work for you."

Lestrade said nothing, thought about that for a minute. He had gone a little overboard. Maybe. He thought a few seconds more. Grudgingly, he had to agree with her. It wasn't his place. He knew he was a little worked up over things. "Maybe you're right. I'll try to stay out of it."

"God almighty, did I just hear that? You said I was right?" She savored that small victory for a moment, but then shot a severe glance at him. "Are you sure you can do that? Stay out of it? You should know. People are talking about more than your recent pissy moods."

He raised an eyebrow in question, indicated with a gesture of his hand to continue.

"Like maybe about you and that certain someone with big brown eyes."

He frowned. Thought deeply. Nothing had happened that he would consider inappropriate. They hadn't even been more than twenty feet near each other since she came back, except for the two minutes he'd asked for when he first saw her. But really, what did they think could happen in two minutes? He had been trying to keep his distance, to avoid just this type of problem. Hopefully, no one had investigated the use of his phone.

"Molly Hooper is a friend of mine. Has been for years," he said carefully. "If that's who you mean."

"Yeah, that's who I mean."

"Well, of course I'm concerned about her," he continued, still picking his words carefully. "But if you are making some kind of accusation, I haven't been anywhere near her since she got back, not without a whole room of people around and then barely within shouting distance," he defended himself.

"You don't have to be in the same _city_ with her these days and you're still making everybody crazy around here. You're moody and unpleasant. And generally you aren't like that. I've never seen you like this, Greg Lestrade. Not even when you and Lola were splitting up."

He sighed. The mention of his ex didn't even faze him that much anymore. "Everything's fine," he said, "I'm fine." And then added for good measure, "I'll have you know, I had a _date_ the other night." That would show her, show the whole goddamn Yard for that matter since they were so bloody interested, that he was not pining for Molly Hooper. Fuck. He actually was pining for her, but nobody else needed to know that.

She snorted sarcastically. "Yeah, I can tell it must have been fantastic, since your mood is so much better. If you really had a date, then I think it just pissed you off more."

"What do you mean, _if I really had a date_?" he countered, put out. "I'm very...eligible," he finished, a little self-mockingly. "Famous and attractive, even. Or so I've recently been told."

Sally snorted again. "Look, you might be my boss but I know you pretty well, and I think we have a certain understanding where we can talk to each other honestly, right? And what I'm going to say is as a colleague and friend, not anything…weird, ok?"

Lestrade nodded warily, wondering where this was going. "By all means, continue. If you must."

"So. Yes, you are, actually. Very eligible. You're a good man and I've got to say you are looking mighty fine these days. I don't know what's got into you, but I like it. You got some new swag and you did it without Sherlock Holmes hanging around since he got shot. And all before little Miss Hooper came back to town. _It's all you_." She looked at him carefully. "Don't let this drag you down. What do you see in her, anyway?"

He looked at her, continued to twirl his pen in his fingers, and shrugged almost imperceptibly. And, finally, the whole of the situation laid out before him, with no reason or energy to fight it any more, he surrendered in the face of Sally Donovan's ministry of truth.

"Just the rest of my life," he finished quietly, all his anger gone.

Sally rolled her eyes, again. "Oh, you've got it bad." She looked like she wanted to say something more, thought better of it, then started to walk away. But there was no stopping it when Sally had something to say, he had learned. She turned back.

"I've got some advice for you,' she said. "And please, listen to me carefully, for the sake of everyone in this office. For the sake of _humanity_. Her part in this trial will be over soon. And when it is, you either forget her, or you fuck her. But you gotta go one way or the other."

And with that, Sally Donovan turned around and swept out of the office, leaving a surprised Lestrade behind, but not before she stopped at the door again and said over her shoulder, "For _humanity_." And then she really was gone.

Greg Lestrade stared at the now empty doorway. She's got some nerve, he thought, agitated. I'm her boss, for god's sake. She can't go around telling her boss who to fuck. He spun around in his chair, looked out the window at the darkening streets, lights winking on in all the buildings. Who was he kidding. No one would ever be the boss of Sally Donovan. He cracked a little smile. He always let her walk all over him; he had a soft spot for her. And vice-versa, he knew. Despite her caustic ways, she was a good sergeant. Even when they had clashed, and they had clashed majorly in the past, he knew she thought she was just doing her job and he wouldn't want it any other way. And deep down, she was looking out for him. They had each other's backs.

His phone chimed. He spun his chair back around and he looked down at it, where it was lying on the desk.

_I never meant to hurt you_

He took a deep breath. Molly Hooper was launching a slow but brilliantly executed attack on his defenses. Cracks were splitting in the fortress walls. Grappling hooks were being thrown over and finding purchase. Sally Donovan's words echoed in his head.

The defenses would hold, not much longer, but they would hold. Her part in the trial was over tomorrow. And by the end of tomorrow, he knew which way the pendulum would swing. It was inevitable; he would not be able to stay away, didn't _want_ to stay away. For the eight hundred and twenty third time he thought about the improper personal use of his phone, but he picked it up anyway.

_I'll try to think of a way you can make it up to me_

He laid the phone back down on his desk._ For humanity, _he thought, a smile creeping over his face again. He picked up his pen again, and went back to work.


	32. Let's Start Over

Late Monday afternoon, Greg Lestrade stood outside the office of Tobias Gregson, leaning with his back against the wall, hands in his coat pockets. He rolled his lucky lighter around and around in his fingers, hoping for some luck to rub off. He was wearing one of his new suits, his new shoes and a new tie, hoping he looked his best. He had made an effort.

She had given her expert opinion about the murders in court that afternoon, and was just finishing up at the Yard. For all practical purposes, her part in the trial was over. He pondered how they had found themselves like this here, today, more apart than they had ever been, in all the years they had known each other. Now it was time, well past time, to put things right.

Finally, the door opened. Tobias Gregson held the door open for Molly to pass through, caught a glimpse of Lestrade in the hall, smirked a bit.

"Lestrade," he said in acknowledgement, with that perpetually smarmy voice of his that grated on his ears.

"Gregson," Lestrade gritted out. _Wanker_.

Molly looked initially surprised and happy to see him, then her face grew a little more somber, he noted, and he frowned a little. He knew she thought he was still angry with her. "I...we just finished," she said.

"Good," Lestrade said, "I've been waiting. Wanna get out of here?"

"Sure, ok," Molly said, surprised but pleased, he thought. Hoped she was pleased.

"You kids have fun," Tobias Gregson said. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Fuck off," Lestrade said over his shoulder in irritation, but Gregson just smirked more and shut the door.

"Ignore him," Lestrade said. "I always do."

She looked up at him. "So, we're talking now?"

"You're done with the trial. Gregson can gossip all he wants. Nobody will care now." He paused, a pained but resigned look on his face. "Also, I spoke to the Superintendent. I told him everything, about how I can't be assigned any work that ever has anything to do with you, ever again. No matter what it is. I don't think I could be entirely professional about it. That would all go to Gregson. Gregson's just rubbing that in, a bit."

"But you hate him!" Molly was aghast, and he had to smile at her horrified reaction.

"Well, I like you more than I hate him. I'll be fine. So, would you like to have a drink with me?" He had thought about dinner, but decided to start out slow. If things went well, maybe dinner later. And if things went _really_ well, maybe after that…he could feel heat rising in him already.

Molly smiled at him tentatively, and he melted another degree. She looked very beautiful, he thought, dressed up in a matching porcelain blue jacket and skirt, a white blouse underneath with a pattern of little birds on it, with high heels for the meeting at court, holding her heavier coat over her arm. She always looked beautiful to him no matter what she was wearing, though, he was easy that way.

They left the yard and walked a few blocks to their favorite pub. It was dark already, the meeting with Gregson after the trial had gone long. Lestrade was immensely aware of her beside him, immensely aware of her shapely legs and sexy heels. Immensely aware of not having seen her for four months. Before they got to the pub, he stopped, touched her arm for her to slow down, too. They stood in the darkness between two street lights. There were not many people out and it was quiet and intimate. He wanted to talk to her, alone, before they got inside where it was noisy and had to shout.

"Molls," he said, suddenly speaking quickly before he lost the nerve. "Let's start over. I'm sorry I was such an idiot when I saw you last Friday, in your flat, after the break-in. I didn't expect to see you, is all. I know you were scared and I acted like a jerk. I may have been a little….upset."

Molly rushed to answer him, relief flooding her voice. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. I was the idiot. I was really wrong to go away without a word. I left things really...confusing between us, didn't I? I don't know what I was thinking. I can't tell you how much I regret it now. I wasn't thinking straight. I guess it was kind of a bad time for me."

"Yeah," he said, with a sigh. "I know. I've been there. Maybe I expected too much, too fast."

"Well," she said, moving a little closer, smiling a shyly but a little provocatively, her hand reaching out and lightly trailing down the lapel of his coat, straightening it. "I'm not confused anymore. I know what I want. But I'm not sure…I hope I haven't ruined things. I mean, I hope you still..."

His internal temperature shot up again, heartbeat and breath quickening, every sense attuned to Molly Hooper; the way she was smiling at him, how she lightly touched him, the smell of her perfume, the sound of her voice, the way she was curving in towards him almost unconsciously, like she always used to, even before they knew. Fuck, how he had missed it all so much. He smiled in return, now his move to angle in even closer to her in this dance of reconciliation they were doing. Reminding him of another dance they'd had once, their bodies always speaking loudly where words failed them.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I don't want any more regrets, Molls." He leaned his head down towards hers, his lips just inches away. "Maybe we should work on making all that gossip true…"

And then he heard it. The unmistakable sound of a gun cocking from the shadows behind him. He immediately stilled, raised his hands. How could he not have heard anything, not noticed anyone coming, not _felt_ an ominous presence. His sixth sense had failed him. He'd only had eyes for Molly Hooper.

Reflexively, he was already immediately switched into work mode. He placed himself as well as he could between whatever was behind him, and Molly. Christ. Probably some junkie, looking for money for a fix. He would try to play it cool, try to figure out the intent of the perp.

"You're shitting me," he said, directing his comment over his shoulder. "Really? Right here on the sidewalk, in plain sight?"

The gunman moved out of the shadows, and Lestrade could see him now. He automatically assessed all the details. The gunman wore a ski mask, was about his height, slimmer than he was so his weight would be a little less, but he looked sinewy, strong.

"Take it easy," Lestrade said to the gunman, but also willing himself to remain calm. He'd had a gun pointed at him before. "I have money, if that's what you want. Put down the gun, take the money, and go."

"I don't want money," the assailant said. "I just came to take a look." He gestured at Molly with his free hand. "Step forward," he ordered. She did as she was told, with hands up, the look on her face frightened, but Lestrade could see she was not panicking. Instead, he could see she was thinking. Thinking in the same direction he was, if he knew his Molly, and he was certain he did.

The gunman suddenly switched from pointing at Lestrade to pointing right at Molly's head, and came up behind her, and put an elbow around her neck to hold her against him. He pointed the gun back at Lestrade.

"Pretty girl, isn't she?" the gunman asked. "Looks to me like you think so, too. This little girl here grew up pretty. So predictable she would be with you. Predictable you would come here tonight. Being predictable is where people always fuck up."

"Who are you?" Lestrade asked, through gritted teeth. "What do you want?" His mind was racing. Who the hell was this? This clearly wasn't any regular junkie. Somehow, he knew Molly. His usual tactics could fail him, he would have to be clever.

"Just an old friend of the family, you might say. I've been following the trial. Tossed a few flats for the boss-imagine my surprise, to see that picture of her and her family in that flat. Brought back so many good memories. Didn't even know until then who she was. The irony of it all is really too much. I've been watching her ever since, but couldn't get close, until now. Now I'm thinking I might want to do more than watch. Maybe I'll take her with me. But I'm going to need to get rid of you."

The gunman tightened his grip around Molly's throat, started to back away now, the gun still trained on Lestrade. Lestrade slid his eyes from the gunman, to Molly. He caught her gaze. They could get out of this. They had practiced this before. He just had to take a little risk, and Molly could do the rest. As he looked at her, he nodded almost imperceptibly. He could see that she understood what he was thinking. "Now," he mouthed to her.

In perfect harmony, they executed their plan. With her elbow, she jammed back into the gunman's ribs with as much force as she had, and slammed into his instep with her spiky heel. Simultaneously, as the arm the gunman was pointing at Lestrade wavered and lowered a fraction in response to the blows, Lestrade stepped forward and struck the gunman's wrist with all the force he had. The gun flew out of his hand and skittered a few feet away.

The gunman had let go of Molly and she staggered forward, and Lestrade caught her just before she fell. As he held Molly, he could see the assailant running away, although with a limp. He was momentarily conflicted about running after him, but he could not leave Molly, who was having trouble catching her breath or speaking after the pressure on her windpipe was relieved. They sank to their knees, and with one arm around her, he reached into his pocket with the other free hand and pulled out his phone and called it in. Then waited for the police and medics to come, holding her, and kissed her face over and over, so grateful they were unharmed, and together.


	33. Heart and Soul

Molly sat in Greg Lestrade's office at the Yard, a bit stunned. She thought about everything the gunman had said. It could mean only one thing. All the pieces were fitting together. It chilled her to her very bones.

She heard voices coming. Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock. Greg must have called him in. Despite it all, it warmed her heart to see them both. It was good to see them side by side, working together. It was unfortunate it took such an event to bring them all together again.

Sherlock stepped into the office, came to her side. "Are you all right?" he asked in concern. He could see the bruising that was starting to form at her throat, and his eyes glinted dangerously in anger. The medics had checked her and there had been no harm done requiring further treatment, but still, there would be marks.

"I'm all right," she said. Sherlock laid a hand on her shoulder, briefly, before taking it away.

"You know what this means, right?" she asked, looking from Lestrade, then to Sherlock. Her heart, and her soul.

Sherlock and Lestrade looked at each, frowned, then back at Molly.

"That was not a random crime," Sherlock stated, speaking for all of them.

"I know," Molly said. "I could almost feel it coming. I knew something wasn't right, since I started working on this case. It was too….familiar. And these last few days, I really did feel like I was being…" She paused. "I told you I had a problem with sociopaths," she finished weakly, a little ironically. Then she grew more serious again, looked at Lestrade. "I know who that was, Greg."

"Your brother's killer," Sherlock interjected. "It's obvious. Your missing picture. The similarity of the crimes. Saying he was an old family friend. Probably did the murders you autopsied and just testified about."

Molly leaned forward in her chair, suddenly tired and overwhelmed, and a single tear slid down her face. Lestrade immediate came to her side, sat on his heels in front of her, coming down to her level. He cupped the side of her face with his hand, wiped away the tear with a caress of his thumb. Molly's head tilted towards his hand, her cheek resting against his palm.

Lestrade was gentle to her when he spoke. "Maybe he did those things. And maybe not. Maybe this is all just a coincidence. Maybe not. Maybe he's just a nut job. We don't have any proof of anything yet. Let's not jump to any conclusions yet, ok?"

"Obviously you attracted his attention by being involved with this trial," Sherlock carried on, now fully in his own mind, oblivious, as he thought out loud. "He was doing the dirty work for that crime boss on trial, most likely. Imagine his accidental discovery. The very sister of one of his earliest victim grows up to become a forensic pathologist and then performs autopsies on his later victims, and testifies about his work in court, 20 years later! The odds of that are really quite astounding. And he knows that through you he even gets access to me, and that must be a thrill for him, to match wits as they say. The ultimate ego boost for him." Sherlock paused, considered something. "Probably some sexual perversion involved as well, this is really getting him off. He could hardly resist coming back to see you."

"Jesus, Sherlock, tone it down a bit, yeah?" Lestrade said curtly. Molly saw him shoot an angry glance at Sherlock, who just shrugged. She knew Sherlock could never understand why people didn't want to hear the truth. She had a little of that problem, herself. Greg Lestrade, though, was always trying to protect people, it was in his nature.

"Well, now he's come out of the woodwork," Sherlock finished more quietly this time. "He'll make a mistake, sooner or later. You'll be his downfall, Molly Hooper. And I'll be there to catch him."

"Maybe he's come to finish the job he didn't do twenty years ago," Molly said, feeling ill.

"No." Lestrade said fiercely. "No." His hand still at the side of her face, he pulled her to him and rested his forehead against hers. "Don't even think that."

Sherlock cleared his throat, and over Greg's shoulder Molly could see a ripple of something cross over Sherlock's face as he caught her eye, before it went back to a neutral expression. "I understand this is Gregson's case now. I'll go get him." He popped his coat collar, and swiftly turned on his heel and left the room.

It was really just sinking in now, what had happened. It was only later they learned the gun was not loaded. She had no doubt that the killer would have followed through with the kidnapping, if she had believed the gun was loaded or if they had not disarmed him. But it was not so much fear for herself that concerned her, it was the fear she had felt when the gun was pointed at Greg Lestrade, and how he had stepped in front of the gun to knock it out of the way. He could so easily have been injured, or killed. The thought of it made her dizzy, like she had felt that time in this office before, when she saw his bloody shirt.

"You took too much risk," she said, "getting in front of that gun like that."

"Nah," he said, smiling a little, purposely downplaying things, she knew, to make her feel better. "You had my back. I trust you."

"No, really, Greg. You saved my life," she insisted.

He frowned then, just a little, and grew serious again. "He really would have to kill me first to get near you again. I swear it, Molls, I'd lay my life down for you." He pulled back and looked her in the eye then, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'm not going to have to. Molls, I'm glad I was there, but I think you could have got out of it yourself. You're smart. You're strong. You have the training you need to keep yourself safe and you just proved it. Don't ever forget that. You're a god damn pro and I love you all the more for it."

Then he kissed her gently, several times. He stood up, lightly trailed his fingertips across her cheek. "Everything's going to be ok," he said, with conviction. He smiled a little, then said with a bit of teasing in his voice, "Despite what I just said, I'm still going to hang around you like a fucking bodyguard. Because that's what I do, right?"

She looked up at him, fixated, reveling in that kind, teasing, thoughtful smile on his handsome face as he looked back down at her, his hands on his hips brushing his jacket to the sides in that way he always stood. Her mind exploded with her thoughts she could no longer contain. _She loved him_. With a fierceness she didn't even know she was capable of. _She loved him_. Her mind savored the words, could feel and taste them rolling around on her tongue, wanting to be spoken. Words that had always been there, patiently waiting for release, but were now lined up front and center in their newfound haste to get out. Finally, she was ready to say something. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly loud voices were in the hallway just outside the door and the moment was lost.

She saw him tilt his head a little bit and his forehead furrowed, concerned, clearly noting the way she was staring at him so very intently, so very quiet, so still. "Don't worry, Molls," he said gently, mistaking her silence for something else, worry or anxiety, maybe. He briefly looked at the door before he turned back to her. "I'll be here with you when you talk to Gregson. He'll probably have to talk to me, too. I'll be right here, right next to you."

At that moment, there was nothing in the world she would rather do than be with Greg Lestrade. She didn't want to be without him, not ever again.


	34. Let's Go Home

Finally done with the interviews and inevitable paperwork, they were free to go. Lestrade put his arm around her shoulder, and on the way out of the office, they passed Sally Donovan at her desk, who was intently watching something on her computer screen. She looked up just before they passed.

"Wait up," she called to him. "Have a look at this". Lestrade peered over her shoulder and could see, to his surprise, a videotape of him and Molly Hooper on the street, just prior to the attack.

"We got tape," Donovan said. "Caught it all on CCTV. A little dark and grainy, but we got something to go on, at least."

Lestrade nodded. "That was fast. That's good."

Sally Donovan leaned back in her chair. "I watched that tape. Several times. That was...some good work."

She looked over at Molly with some grudging respect in her eyes. But then she rolled her eyes, in typical Donovan fashion. "Damn it, I really hate it when people make me upgrade my opinions of them. Bloody well done, Hooper."

Molly blushed, but replied a little sardonically, wary of praise from Sally Donovan. "Thanks, I guess. At least all those lessons Greg gave me didn't go to waste." At the mention of his name, which he liked hearing her say, Lestrade pulled her a little closer to him with his arm still around her shoulders.

Lestrade saw Donovan look back at the tape, to him, to Molly, then her gaze finally settled back on him again. "Well, don't let me keep you." She raised her eyebrows, and said a little slyly, "You've got things to do."

He rolled his own eyes in answer to her, but he only said, "Just so you know. I won't be in tomorrow."

"Didn't think so. I got it covered," Sally answered, then jerked her head towards the exit and said, gruffly but not unkindly, "Now go on. Get outta here."

In the parking garage, as they slid into the police car Lestrade usually drove, he turned to her. "I don't want you to go back to your flat tonight." He had been thinking about it all the way down to the car. Hell, he had been thinking about it all night, just not exactly for the same reasons as he was going to put forth now as to why she should come home with him.

"No?" she asked, an eyebrow quirked.

"No. Your flat isn't secure. That front door is like cardboard, even with the three deadbolts. And I'm assuming you don't have a security alarm system. No security cameras?"

Molly had to shake her head. Of course she didn't, he knew she didn't.

"Thought so. After what happened tonight, you're going to need some security for a while. That's where I come in. And fortunately, my flat just happens to be extremely secure. I have the best security alarm system there is. Cameras in the hallway, the works. Nobody's getting near the place without me knowing about it. I can monitor it all from my phone."

"Really?" Molly asked, surprised. "I didn't know that."

"Really," he answered confidently. "There's a lot of weirdoes out there. I see them every day. Makes me paranoid."

He turned to help with her seat belt as she struggled with the unfamiliar buckle, his hand lingering on hers for a moment until he caught her gaze again. "Come home with me tonight, Molls. Tomorrow we'll go to your flat and feed the cat, get what you need, do whatever you want. Just….come home with me tonight."

She sighed, practically melted up against him as she laid her head on his shoulder. "I'd love that. Really."

He looked at her snuggled up against him, felt a little stab in his chest. "You know that's just an excuse, right? A pretty good one, but still…" His brow furrowed again as his thoughts returned to the dark events of the evening. "I don't care if you lived in a maximum security fortress, I'd still ask you to come home with me," he continued, fierce once again. "I need you with me tonight. I've come close to losing you too many times. Hell, if not to that psycho tonight, then just to some other completely normal bloke I was too stupid to let get to you first. I'm not letting that happen again. I'm not letting you go."

"I don't want you to let me go," she said. "I would have come home with you tonight anyway, I knew that before any of the bad stuff happened. I don't need any excuses, you wonderful, sexy, overly-conscientious dolt." But she softened her words with a kiss to his cheek, before she settled back in against his side.

He smiled widely. "Let's go home."


	35. Something to Say

_Note: This chapter has Mature content_

He had stayed up much later, still keyed up, unable to relax. He'd changed into a comfortable faded plaid shirt and jeans, and lay down on his dark brown leather couch with the book and a tumbler of scotch. Making not much progress on the book at all, so aware of Molly in the next room. The events of the night still so vivid in his mind. He had checked on her what seemed like every ten minutes, but she didn't stir at all, out cold. Each time he checked his eyes wandered to her neatly folded stack of clothes in a chair, then to the bare arm lying atop the duvet, and he could not help but imagine in vivid detail what lay beneath the duvet. He didn't think his bed had ever looked more inviting to him. But he could wait. He'd waited this long, and he could wait a little longer.

Since he got home he had been constantly reliving the view of a gun to Molly's head, reliving the feeling of terror he had felt at that moment. Reliving how his knees had nearly buckled under him with relief when the other officers arrived and they ejected the magazine of the gun and found it to be empty. In all his years on the force he didn't think he had ever been so afraid as when that gun was pointed at Molly. But Molly had not panicked. She had performed perfectly, and they functioned like a well oiled team. They had practiced for it for years, as if in blissfully ignorant preparation of what would come. Exhausted, he must have eventually fallen asleep but even then his thoughts did not leave him alone.

He checked his watch; three o'clock in the morning. It was fairly quiet, just the sound of cars passing in the street, an occasional pair of headlights tracing a path of light across the wall. He sat up, laid the book on the wooden coffee table and reached out for the tumbler of scotch which was by now mostly water from the melted ice cubes, and noticed his hand was shaking. He'd had to keep it together at the office, but here, in the quiet and solitude of his home where he could let his guard down, he felt like he was finally falling apart. He sat with his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, palms pressing into his eyes as if to blot out what he had seen.

He felt it then, a soft stirring of air next to him carrying the scent of a feminine perfume. A small, delicate hand slid onto his shoulder and his own hands fell away from his face as he looked up in surprise. She was standing there before him, in what appeared to be one of his shirts buttoned almost all the way up, but just barely covering the tops of her thighs, her legs bare underneath. Despite the quiet he had not heard her come in, silent on her bare feet. He was rendered speechless both by her sudden materialization in front of him and by how she looked, so gorgeous and almost ghostly in the dark, her pale skin reflecting the light from the street coming in through parted curtains. She had come to him, just when he needed her most.

She didn't say anything as she settled down into his lap, legs to either side of his, facing him. He reached out to touch her, to confirm she was real. His hand ran gently down the side of her neck as he thought about what had happened earlier, hoping it really had all been a bad dream. But it hadn't been; his hand went to her shirt collar, where he pulled it away a little. He could see the bruising there, darker than it was hours before. He leaned towards her and pressed his lips lightly to the markings on her neck; first one side, than the other, lightly feathering over the surface of her skin. If he could kiss it all away, he would.

"You weren't there when I woke up," she said, "so I've come to get you."

She ran her hands up his chest then locked them around the back of his neck, leaning closer, her cheek against his. Her skin was so smooth against the rasp of his five o-clock shadow.

"I'm ready to say something to you now," she said softly. "And this time, I don't want _you_ to say anything."

Despite her promised announcement, she took her time getting to it, her lips so soft, so pliant, her tongue gently teasing and tangling with his own; slowly, languorously, purposefully turning him inside out.

Just when he thought he would go crazy without having more of her, she pulled back slightly to look at him, her eyes luminous in the dark. She took a deep breath. And finally she said it, those words he had longed to hear for so long.

"I love you, Greg Lestrade."

She then moved forward in his lap, pressed right up against him. Her movements sent a jolt of pleasure through him, causing him to breathe in sharply. He took hold of her hips under the loose shirt, her skin bare and silky to his touch. He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with soft fingertips against his lips.

"Don't say anything. Just come to bed," she coaxed softly, moving against him again.

Like a switch had been flipped, he abruptly leaned forward and kissed her hungrily, roughly, and he could feel her respond just as urgently as her legs wrapped around his waist. His senses on fire, he pulled her as close as possible and rocked into her, his mind thrumming with_ yes… yes… this…yes…_but this was not enough, not enough, he suddenly pushed off the couch and stood up, her legs still tightly wrapped around him, and he carried her to the bed. She was so small, so light in his arms. As he lay down next to her, he marveled how she could be so fragile and so strong at the same time.

She was smiling, a hand thrown back over her head, her long hair fanning out in a halo around her. Her other hand went to the buttons at the collar of her shirt and began to slip them from the holes, one by one. Impatient, he rolled closer to her and he finished undoing the rest of the buttons himself, ridiculously turned on by her wearing his clothes.

Once they were all undone, he slid his hand inside, felt the curve of her breast, which so perfectly fit in his hand. He brushed his thumb across, could feel her arousal which only further heightened his own. He slowly explored his way downwards along her side with his fingertips, beginning just under her arm, feeling every curve, swell, rise of her body, memorizing the contour of her hip, the arc of her thigh, the soft indentation at the back of her knee. But he did not see what he was looking for.

"Where is it," he almost growled, now speaking next to her ear as he nuzzled against her neck. He was crazy to see it, the tattoo that had haunted his fantasies since he had learned of it that day in his office. "You know what I mean. I want to see it. You've seen mine, now I want to see yours."

"Find it," she urged breathlessly, her lips now close to his ear.

She flicked her tongue right behind his earlobe which sent an electric jolt through him. They both sat up and he pushed the shirt off her shoulders, carefully releasing one arm at a time, and he threw the shirt to the floor beside the bed. His heart was in his throat at the site of Molly Hooper completely bared to him, this stuff of dreams; of his, at least.

He wanted to feel her, the length of her, against his own bare skin. He began to unbutton his own shirt, but then her hands, a little shaky, flew to his shirt to do it for him, unbuttoning the rest of the way down. She brushed the shirt to the sides, running her hands over his chest, her fingernails grazing against the soft curls of hair, against the hard planes of muscle, moving downwards, undoing the button of his jeans. In under a minute, with both of them working at the task, he was free of his clothes.

As they laid down again on their sides, now her back to him, he placed his hand on her tiny waist. How easily he could span it from the tip of his thumb to his little finger, how much darker and rougher was his hand next to her pale, smooth skin. His eyes roamed the length of her body from the top of her back, tracing the sharply delicate angles of her shoulder blades, evocatively birdlike, down the ridge of her spine, to rest at her tailbone where he finally found it. A black silhouette of a little bird in flight, wings outstretched in a V. He let out his breath with a shudder, and he felt a surge of intense desire shoot through him.

His head was filling with that roaring sound again, his heart was beating strongly and erratically. This time, he would not ignore every screaming signal his body was giving. From her waist, his hand trailed slowly downwards, seeking. He held her tight against him, loving the feel of her beneath his touch, loving the sheen of perspiration on her skin and blush of pink that flooded her cheeks as she responded, the lovely sounds she made as he explored and began to learn this new lush terrain that was Molly Hooper.

She rolled in his arms and faced him, her eyes bright and filled with desire. Desire for _him_. The thought was heady as she pushed on his chest with both hands, and surrendering to her lead, he laid on his back as she climbed over to straddle him. He loved to feel the weight of her on top of him, her long hair brushing against him just as he had imagined, marveling at the exquisite view of her body above him. His hands went to her knees to either side of him, his thumbs feeling the soft flesh of her inner thighs as they slid up the expanse of her leg, slowly.

She reached down, finding so easily what she wanted. "_Fuck_," he breathed out hoarsely, closing his eyes tightly, the pressure and movement of her hand making his mind go blank. Nearly mad with desire too long denied, he grabbed her around the waist and rolled her onto her back, her legs twining around him tightly as they went. He held himself above her, arms at either side of her, and then they both knew nothing more except heat and sweat and friction and pleasure.

Finally, both spent, they laid side by side for a few minutes, silent, nothing more needing to be said. In time, she rolled towards him and smiled, reached up to trace his jaw line with her fingertips. He kissed her forehead and slipped an arm around her and she laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes, soon asleep.

His mind still active despite Molly's slumber, he was already planning ahead. In the morning, maybe he would get up before her, make a pot of coffee. Enough for two. Bring in a cup for her and let her sleep on. Thinking about such a simple thing as making coffee for two, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that what he had wanted for so long was finally happening. She had said she loved him, and his hope grew that she might be in his life like this from now on. His heart swelled to nearly impossible proportions. Something suddenly crept across him that he hadn't felt in a long time. _Happiness_. He was truly happy.

Mesmerized by the sight of her sleeping so peacefully, he watched her head rising and falling with the rhythm of his own breathing, the two of them moving in synch, their timing perfectly right. His arms tightened around her as if he would never let go, and in response she sighed a little and pressed in closer but did not wake. His eyes finally grew heavy and he slipped into a state of sleep no longer plagued by nightmares, secure in the knowledge that he loved her, and she loved him.


	36. Always at Your Service

When Molly woke up next, it was just beginning to get light outside. She could feel the lovely weight of his arm draped over her waist, his heat at her back, the sound and feel of his measured breath in sleep, blowing softly against the loose strands of hair at the nape of her neck.

She contemplated the hand splayed across her midsection. Strong and hard, dark and textured, sometimes rough and sometimes elegant in movements, wrist accentuated by the black band and the large silver dial of a masculine watch. She wondered if he ever took it off. Would the skin beneath it be several shades lighter? She shivered at the thought of him letting her remove it. Her gaze wandered to his ring finger, where the pale circle left by his wedding ring had long ago filled in. She looked at her own hand—the circle there had faded as well, but it had never been so visible as that of Greg Lestrade's, who tanned so easily in the sun.

She slipped out from beneath his arm without disturbing him, grabbed her phone from the nightstand and the shirt from the floor, shrugging into it as she wandered out to the kitchen where she got a drink of water. Then she wandered into the living room, taking a moment to herself to have a look at the private life of Greg Lestrade, which she had never had the privilege to see before. How strange it was, to know and yet not know, someone she had become so close to.

The living room was filled with dark leather furniture, a sofa and a chair, flanking a large dark wood coffee table. The décor was minimal, bringing to mind a certain spartan masculinity, but the real standout features were the floor to ceiling bookshelves covering one entire wall.

She sat on the couch with her glass of water, and idly brushed her fingers over a stack of books, clearly his works in progress: Mercenaries of the Ancient World, The Fall of the Roman Empire, Russia Against Napoleon, Hannibal's Army, and finally The Beast of Gévaudan, which was spread out flat next to the stack, its spine cracked from use and handling. It was a little bit thrilling to learn more about him; room by room, book by book, kiss by kiss. She was in no hurry to leave the comfort and security of this haven; the comfort of his arms, the security against someone who just might want to kill her. But she didn't want to think about that now, she was too full of bliss at just this moment.

She picked up her phone and sent a text, thinking back to one of their earlier conversations, back when only she knew he was alive.

_You were right, you know_  
><em> Greg Lestrade likes me<em>

It was just a moment before a text was returned.

_Obviously_

She just needed to tell him something.

_I need to thank you, for helping me to see the light_

The response was quick.

_I am at your service, always_

She paused for a moment, and smiled.

_There is one more thing I need_

Again the response was quick.

_You need just name it_

She quickly punched in the message.

_I need you to feed my cat for the next two days. _

_I gave that spare key to my neighbor, I can call her and tell her to expect you_

There was no reply for quite some time. Molly texted one more thing.

_You may need to check the litter box_

In her mind, she imagined him shuddering in revulsion, sighing heavily with possibly a resigned expression on his face, and the thought made her laugh to herself a little.

_Very well_  
><em>I may need an assistant for that last request<em>  
><em>I'll bring John<em>

She smiled, wandered back into the bedroom, let the shirt drop to the floor again, and slipped under the covers. Her phone, still in her hand, chimed again with another incoming text.

_Are you happy?_

She replied;

_Immeasurably so_

It was a full minute before the reply came.

_Don't forget me_

As if that was possible, she thought. There were many different kinds of love in the world. She texted back.

_We don't stop loving one person because we begin to love another, remember?_

Again there was a delay, but the reply finally came.

_Give my regards to Lestrade_

Finally roused by the chiming of the incoming texts and the shifting weight on the mattress, Lestrade stretched next to her and naturally, automatically reached for her as if he had done so a hundred times before.

"Mmmmm, hello," he murmured sleepily, nuzzling her neck in the way he so liked to do, and she so enjoyed. "Who was that?"

"Sherlock," she replied, curving into him. "He says to give you his regards."

He sighed, rolled his eyes a little. "Fucking fantastic," he drawled, but not without humor. Now fully awake, he plucked the phone from her hand and lightly tossed it across the floor, far from her reach. Then he wrapped her fully in his arms, his rekindled desire apparent already.

"Talk to him later. Right now, you're all mine." He covered her lips with his own, hungrily. There was nothing like the mention of Sherlock Holmes to get an immediate, desirous, possessive response from Greg Lestrade.

Molly sighed in contentment, when she finally had a chance to breathe. "I love you so much. You're the best thing that ever happened to me," she said quietly, reaching up to brush the hair off his forehead. "Thank you for believing in me. For a few months there, you had to be strong enough for the both of us. I didn't think we were ever going to get the timing right."

"Some things are worth waiting for," he answered simply. And then he kissed her again.

Finally, finally, she had found her way home. Sometimes it's never the right time-until it is.


	37. Forgiven

_Another four months later - February_

Lestrade sat with his feet on his desk, ankles crossed, reading the paper. It had been a rare quiet night. The sun was just coming up, and soon he would be able to finish his night shift and go home. He reached over for his paper cup of terrible office coffee, now cold, just about to take a sip.

There was a knock at the door, and a sergeant stuck his head in. "You're never gonna believe this one, boss."

At just that moment, a text came in on his phone. He swung his feet off the desk, looked from the sergeant to his phone, knowing instinctively something was up. An anonymous number.

_Look outside_

He immediately pushed away from his desk and moved over to the window and looked down. Just below the window, he could see a few officers milling around what appeared to be a person. He strained to make it out…a person handcuffed to a street light post.

"What the…." he mumbled to himself.

He grabbed his coat and followed the sergeant down the stairs to the outside, where he was met by Donovan.

"What's all this?" he asked her, waving towards the crowd.

"You tell us," she said, mysteriously. "Apparently, he's for you." She stood aside for him to pass.

"_Wha?_..." Lestrade strode through the crowd to see what was going on. There was indeed a thin, sinewy man, dressed shabbily in an oversized winter coat, gagged with a cloth stuffed in his mouth. Cuts and scrapes and bruises covered his face, hands and knuckles. Strangest, though, was an envelope pinned to the man's jacket, with "DCI Greg Lestrade" written on it.

Lestrade crouched down in front of the man, looked him over. It was cold as fuck outside. He reached out and pulled out the gag.

"Jesus, how long have you been here?"

The man didn't answer, just glared at him. Lestrade pulled his gloves from his pocket and put them on, carefully reached out and unpinned the envelope. He stood up again.

"Get him inside, put him in one of the cells for now. Call the doctor, and get him some water."

The officers sprang into action to pick the cuffs open.

He and a team of officers took the envelope upstairs, where he carefully slit open the envelope and turned it upside down over a table covered with a white cloth. The objects fell out; a small tin soldier, like a child's toy, tumbled to the table with a quiet clink. A lighter piece of paper fluttered after it. Stunned, he found himself staring at a young Molly Hooper. The missing piece torn from the family photo in Molly's flat.

He looked over to Donovan. "You'd better call Gregson."

He turned away and went back to his office, shutting the door behind him. He sat down behind his desk. He needed a moment to be alone, collect his thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, everything falling into place. His disbelief was growing by the moment, yet he knew they would find it all to be true. He knew exactly who the person was chained to the street lamp, and exactly what he had done. He had never seen his face so he didn't recognize him immediately, but the body type matched. And most importantly, he knew exactly who had chained him there. He was sure, large amounts of money betting sure, that any CCTV security tape that might have shown how the man was chained there would be mysteriously missing.

Sherlock. He had been off the radar for a few months, following the shooting of Magnusson. Lestrade knew little about it, but had speculated a lot. A monumentally sincere, dramatic, yet legally misguided act of love, as only Sherlock could do. He had risked everything and he had been put into semi-exile to atone for his crime. Lestrade could only imagine the resources available to Sherlock now that he was working for the government in some shadowy way. It appeared he had put that power to good use, sanctioned or not.

His phone chimed again, and another text came in.

_For Molly_

Just two simple words, but which carried so much weight.

"You bastard," he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Even now, Sherlock was still always thinking of Molly. Lestrade's brows automatically furrowed a little, then he put the thought aside. And then he could not stop a huge smile breaking across his face. He thought about the envelope, which bore his name spelled entirely correctly, with even the new title exactly right. He had learned long ago to read the code that Sherlock used to show affection, and he realized that, perhaps, Sherlock thought a little about him, too. Affection for Sherlock flooded his own heart. He would forgive him for always thinking so much of Molly. Just this once.

He shook his head, still in amazement. He texted back to the anonymous number:

_You bastard_

And then,

_Thanks_

He waited for a reply, but none came. That phone had probably already been tossed into the Thames.

For the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, he hoped no one would ever check his phone for improper personal use.

Lestrade opened the door to his flat. It was still early in the morning, well before 8:00. He set his winter coat and keys down on a chair by the door, emptied his pockets of change and a wallet, and made his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

He looked through the doorway, and his heart beat a little faster, like it did every single time he saw her. Molly; in his home, in his life, in his bed. It had been a few months since they had moved in together, and he still felt like the luckiest man in the world. Probably always would. The sun was streaming in through the windows, picking up highlights in her chestnut hair spread over the pillows, one hand tucked under her cheek. She was still asleep, Toby snuggled in by her feet. She had worked late at the morgue last night and he hadn't expected her to be up yet.

He sat on the side of the bed and took off his shoes, then lay down next to her, face to face. He smoothed some silky strands of that chestnut hair off her forehead.

She stirred, and slowly opened her eyes.

"Hey," he said, smiling, still smoothing her hair, tucking it behind her ear.

She smiled back. "Hey," she said sleepily.

He leaned forward to kiss her then; both his large hands now coming up to lightly cup her delicate face. He captured her lips between his own, then moved to eyes and cheeks and temples, lingering over every beloved detail, every memorized feature. She sighed in contentment, surrendering happily to his ministrations. He could feel the roughness of his incorrigible five o'clock shadow brush against the smoothness of her skin, and he brushed against her cheek again; she often told him she how much she liked the feel of it. He savored the moment and the fact that she was here, and he was here, they were both alive, and in love. A night like last night always made him count his blessings.

But eventually he pulled away a little, rested his forehead against hers. "Listen…" he started, unsure where to begin. "There's something I need to tell you."

"What's wrong?" she said, suddenly awake. She disentangled herself, and sat up. "Is everything ok? Are you ok?"

He rolled over onto his back. "I'm fine, Molls. Everybody's ok. It's something else." He was still wearing his suit jacket, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture which had been folded in half. "Come back down here, I need to show you something."

Her brows knitted together. "What is it?" she said, and settled back into place along his side, nestled against him under the arm he had held up for her to slide under.

"Do you recognize this?" He passed the photo to her.

She slowly opened it up and looked at it for a few seconds. "Well, it looks like...like maybe one of the toy soldiers that Timmy used to play with."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "It IS the toy soldier that Timmy used to play with. I had to leave the original with Evidence but I got this picture. This matches the one toy that was missing from the set when Timmy disappeared."

She continued to stare at the photo, in shock.

"And this?" he pulled out another photo, which was of the piece torn off the family picture.

She took it from him, looked at it but said nothing, still in shock.

"There's more," he said. "Very early this morning, we found a man handcuffed to a street lamp outside the Yard. He had this toy on him, and that scrap of the photo. And what's more, he's confessed. Gave a complete statement already." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone.

"And finally, this." He gave it to her to read the text he had received.

When she finished, she looked over at him, eyes wide.

"Molls," he said quietly. "Do you see what it all means? We got him." He paused, corrected himself. "Sherlock got him. The guy who killed Timmy. And threatened you. You don't ever have to be afraid of him again."

Tears started to stream down her face. "Are you sure?" she asked unsteadily.

He gently took the photos from her shaking hands and laid them to the side, and pulled her more closely against him, her head tucked under his chin.

"I'm sure."

Wrapped in his arms, she cried the tears she had never really allowed herself to cry before. She would have questions later, he knew, as would they all. And most of all, he hoped that she could find some resolution and put that part of her past to rest. But for now, he would be here for her, for as long as she needed. And then long after that.


End file.
